


All the Starving Stars

by CapConspicuous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Artist Lance (Voltron), College AU, Fluff, M/M, OT3, Other, Photography, Pining, Slow Burn, Space nerds, Threesome - M/M/M, all of them are space nerds, keith is keith, protect Lance from his insecurity please, shiro is soft, shklance - Freeform, space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-09 10:52:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapConspicuous/pseuds/CapConspicuous
Summary: Lance is a starving man. Not in every sense of the word, of course, but he is always lacking something, needing another, craving the unknown.Yeah, Lance is an artist.In which Lance is the kind of man who loves outer space, but not inner space- not when it's empty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Artist!Lance- this spiraled out of control. Spiraled,, like,,, you see the Milky Way? That spiral? Yeah. Like that.  
> Buckle up, my dudes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance becomes an impromptu photographer

Lance is a starving man. Not in every sense of the word, of course, but he is always lacking something, needing another, craving the unknown. 

  
Yeah, Lance is an artist. 

  
There's a girl on the metro one morning, with eyes like charcoal on creamy paper and strands of ink-black hair leaking from her bun. Lance is starving for that contrast of her hair against her skin, and the white line of her earbuds over her collarbone. 

  
Lance doesn't starve for her, not exactly, but some idea of her he wants to capture. Words at his lips never pass though.   
  


Lance may be a starving man, but he is not a stupid one.   
  
There is an old man another afternoon, by the yellowing liquor store behind Lance's apartment. Between the two of them, Lance can tell who is really starving. But Lance wants to mimic the scraggle of the man's beard using a simple black ballpoint, to trace the wrinkles on the his hand and evoke an image from the map of callouses. 

 

No, Lance is not the one starving and his stomach twists in sympathy. Yet his wallet only yawns like a gaping pit in his threadbare pocket and he walks past without looking at the eyes that he could draw with greatest impact. 

  
Lance vividly recalls one evening when rain drenches the city, herald of early spring, droplets an onslaught against his smudged windowpanes.  The streetlights below are dirty gold, and the shine of the traffics' rear lights is ruby red. His eyes catch the droplets as they slide like little falling gems and Lance itches for the drip of watercolor against a plastic cup. 

  
But he spends too much time chasing every drop in his mind and when he finally takes a brush in hand, the rain's spell has lifted and the moment is gone. 

  
Lance is a starving man but he can't move to fill the ache.

  
*

  
"Photography? You're kidding," Lance is usually the one kidding around but, not today, Satan, not today. 

  
"Sorry, Lance, but you need to take the Fundamentals of Photography class if you want the BFA-"

  
"Want" the BFA? Want it? Jesus Fucking Christ-

  
"Yes, but, why- I'm not a photographer, I like drawing, painting- I like _doing_ -" Not that Lance didn't like taking pictures but for God's sake, but every class he took was another few thousand dollars and a few years off his lifespan. 

  
"It's all under the criteria, Lance, it falls under the umbrella for the Fine Arts degree, here's the chart-"

  
To Hell with the chart and this stuffy old counselor too, with his thick glasses and his nasal voice, like Lance hadn't dragged his ass everywhere and anywhere for this degree and _now_ he suddenly needed to take _Fundamentals of Photography_.

  
"Enrollment ends next Tuesday, so it's in your best interest if you get it sorted out ASAP, so you'll graduate on time."

  
"Next Tuesday, got it," You can't blame Lance for his short, clipped words as he slips out of the counselor's cramped office. It's stifling. Everything. God, how had he missed a whole class? He had enough credits but not a goddamned Fundamentals of Photography class.

  
_Fundamentals of Photography_. 

  
*

  
Lance is a starving man, now almost literally. 

  
The class starts off slow: lectures, technical studies, color explorations- _how to actually use a camera_ ; Lance is shifty in the lecture hall because he keeps seeing the same photographs, the same contrast, the same shapes and arrangements. 

  
He knows they're not the same at all, but this isn't what he _wants_.

  
He starves for, yes maybe some instant ramen at times, or anything other than instant ramen. He hungers for something new, and it's not the shutter clicking in his rented Canon Powershot, or talk of composition and lighting.  He's grasping for the end of this ordeal, for the opportunity of a career, the freedom that is _not_ working at the on-campus coffee shop and the student textbook store at the same time. 

  
He makes a small amount of cash off commissions but it's not like everyone has the money or time to help yet another fresh artist gasping for air in the smoggy atmosphere. 

  
The night skies always look pale and muted here, like concealer over freckles that Lance wants to see. He wants to wet-on-wet acrylic all over a canvas and make the stars bright again.  


But when he falls asleep it's usually already dawn.

  
*

 

After weeks of small objects, architecture, organic matter, the professor finally gives them a project worth some interest. 

 

“People. People are always hardest,” The professor, who insists on the first-name basis, Coran, paces the room in a strangely informative manner. “Can anyone tell me why?”

 

“Because they don't stay still?” 

 

The words fly out before Lance can clamp a doodled-all-over hand over his mouth. 

 

Luckily, Coran merely glances over him without comment. Maybe he didn't say it loud enough. 

 

“Humans are naturally expressive creatures. There are 43 individual muscles in a person's face alone. Countless expressions, too many places for error.” Error? Lance knows that well enough he supposes. One crook of an eyebrow could render an expression of orgasmic bliss into soul-shuddering pain.  

 

Coran continues. “Visual art is not about words, what we hear or what others do, but about seeing a representation. Or, as a photographer’s role entails, presenting the representation, with what is given in front of them.  There may be illusion, but there is no fabrication in photography.  People are the hardest for true photography. Because everything must be genuine.”

  
Lance knows that truth is hard to swallow sometimes but seeing it is just as bad, like glass shards  straight to the cornea. Well, consider his interest piqued.

 

“You have twelve weeks, til the end of the semester, to work on compiling an exhibit of photographs, exposing truth in people. You have much flexibility with this assignment, many truths to explore. You know where to find me if you have questions. Have a great weekend-”

 

Still, Lance might be curious now, but the truth is, he doesn't know where to start. 

 

*   


“Make sure your subjects are strangers to you,” Coran continues to elaborate in the next class, “It's easier to learn truth when you're not clouded by bias.”

 

He says other things too, and Lance might be drawing on his hands again but he hears most of it. 

 

“Please make sure your exhibit has variety. I want to see different compositions, different themes, techniques. Say you do macabre, well that works! Don't just slap filters on everything and call it art- everything must contribute to the whole of the compilation.”

 

Lance thinks about macabre for a moment. A whole series of pictures like that? Heck, that would be rad. 

 

“I don't have a limit on how many pictures you need, I only ask that you have more than five. Just effectively represent your truth. As many as it takes.”

 

Lance will probably go the minimalistic side of things here- he'll have to develop the pictures later and that costs moola. He just needs the grade. 

 

“Grading will err on the side of harsh merely because you have so much freedom with this assignment, if you miss the truth, I won't be gentle.”

 

Gentle? Lance snorts inwardly. Coran had once docked points because the building wasn't parallel to the side of the photo. It “threw off the balance” apparently. 

 

“If you don't want to straight out ask people to model for you, might I suggest the ad bulletin outside the Norton Simmons Library on campus? Just pin a description, and maybe insert some monetary incentive, if you know what I mean.”

 

Lance thinks about it. Does he want to ask random people to model for him or would he rather avoid all that social anxiety and have people come to him? He'll have to pay money though. 

 

Norton Simmons Library it is. 

 

*

 

Lance types out an ad of sorts on paper, even though it hurts to type the $30/hour part. 

 

Lance may be broke but he's not gonna swindle anyone, for fuck’s sake. Modeling for anything is hard, and something this time consuming deserves pay. Lance is gonna miss the cash for sure, but he wants to make sure no one gets snubbed in this “business transaction”  

 

He lists his email, phone number, and name on the bottom. Adds cheesy clipart of a camera for good measure. 

 

Armed with a couple of push-pins, Lance jogs to the library and hopes for the best. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance finally gets a call.

Lance wishes he could say that he got a dozen emails and twice as many phone calls from that sheet of paper, but then he'd be lying. Not that he even needs that many people to hit him up, because then he'd have to make decisions, but really, Lance realizes he's kind of lonely. 

 

“Hey, Hunk, my man,” Lance calls Hunk after the second day of waiting for anyone to notice his ad, because this whole ad business makes it that much more obvious that Lance hasn't contacted anyone in days, really. 

 

“Oh, what's up, Lance?” Hunk doesn't sound surprised or salty at Lance's lack of reaching out, bless his sturdy heart. 

 

“Nothin’, just haven't talked to you in a while is all-” Lance remembers a time when they were best friends, in high school, but now Hunk goes to some prestigious school for engineering and the miles span more than just streets. Lance misses his main man. 

 

“How have you been anyways?” Lance continues, guilt easing slowly, “You still interning for that one company-”

 

“Oh yeah, it's great! They've promised me a job once I graduate and the pay’ll be steady so I'm pretty stoked.”

 

“Holy Hell, dude, that sounds awesome-”

 

Well, maybe it's never going to be the same for them, because growing up is weird, but Lance sits on his old twin-sized bed from home and feels a little appeased for a while. 

 

“Hey, make sure you tell Pidge I said hi, okay,” Lance makes Hunk promise. “I didn't forget about them!”

 

“Well, could have fooled me-” that's Pidge’s voice all right, deadpan and dry for the moment,

 

“Pidge! I thought you were sleeping for once-”

 

“You talk too loud, Hunk, feel some remorse because you woke me up and I have a midterm tomorrow-”

“Oh  _ shit _ , I'm sorry, dude, ok, Lance it seems our conversation is cut short-”

 

“Goodbye, sucker!” yells Pidge on the other end, “I'll call or something when I'm free, or never-”

 

God, Lance misses them. 

 

*

 

It's been four days, and Lance is beginning to lose faith in humanity- Oh wait. Already did.

 

Anyways, he is trying to slip off both his sneakers at once without bending over when his phone has a seizure in his pocket and he yelps in surprise, unfortunately hooking one foot right behind his other ankle and toppling to the floor. 

 

Jack: 1, Beanstalk: 0

 

“Hello?” Lance doesn't usually croak hellos but he's sprawled on his floor and he's pretty sure he just scraped his fingers raw digging his phone out of his pocket. Curse skinny jeans. 

 

“Um, hey, is this Lance- uh, McClain?”

 

“Yep, this is he- okay please, please,  _ please  _ tell me you're calling about the modeling.” 

 

“Oh, uh, yeah, I am,” The guy chuckles a bit nervously, “So you're still in need of a model?”

 

“God, yes, you're the first person who's actually contacted me,” Nice going Lance, way to sound not-desperate or anything. He sighs against the probably dirty carpet against his cheek. 

 

“Really? Well, I guess less competition for me then.” The guy clears his throat slightly, “I'm Keith, by the way, and I'm totally up for it- extra cash ya know.”

 

Boy, did Lance ever.

 

“Yeah, I get you, Keith. Nice to meet you, but can I see you in person to talk about this, before I decide? Just makes it easier.”

 

“Yeah, I'm cool with that- is tomorrow okay with you? I'm free any time after noon.”

 

Lance assumes Keith is another student here, then, so he should know the coffee shop Lance works at. “Alright, you know Al-Tea and Coffee? My shift there ends at six if you could stop by, that'd be great.”

 

“Sounds good, Lance. Anything I need to bring, resume or…”

 

Lance wish he could tell if this guy was joking. “Uh, no, nothing like that-”

 

“I was just kidding.” There's an amused laugh on the other end and Lance slaps a hand over his forehead. 

 

Yeah, Lance McClain, great the verbal cues and communication. “I totally knew that. Uh, see you tomorrow then?”

 

“You can count on it. Bye, Lance.” There's a beep when Keith hangs up, thank Christ because Lance would have let the awkward call drag on until he finally slammed the red button abruptly. 

 

That could have been worse. 

 

Maybe Lance should just not get up off the floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @celestialchels_ is my twitter, hmu if you just wanna talk about shklance, honestly


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance gets a little more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 now! <33 Kudos and comments keep me alive!!

Lance is a starving man, and he makes sure he mentions it to Allura as often as he can.

 

“Allura. I am a starving man. I need food,” he groans into the countertop when the shop’s traffic slows a little, just another Thursday. “When’s break?”

 

Allura, who by all means is out of Lance’s league even in friendship and is actually five years older than him, is somehow still Lance’s friend. And his boss.  But, she doesn’t let him slack off, unfortunately.

 

“Break isn’t for another hour, Lance, get your head off the counter, I just wiped that.”

 

Lance makes a face at her but obliges because he’s been smacked by a broom before and it was not fun.

 

Yes, working at Al-Tea and Coffee isn’t what Lance wants to spend his time doing, not with the smile he pastes on every day and the sharp dinging of the cash register under his fingers, but then again, it’s far from the worst.

 

Lance is a starving man, and he soaks in the life of people, even if he doesn’t always want to be in the thick of it.  So he spends his break with a chocolate muffin (sorry wallet) and his sketchbook spread open on his lap.  He loves the way his mechanical pencil, 0.5 lead and worn down eraser, seems to move of its own accord, scratching onto the paper.

 

There’s a girl in the back corner of the shop, with her laptop and honey-blond hair all over one shoulder and a cute floral top. She looks beautiful on paper too, though he adds flowers growing around her and a butterfly to her hair.  Someone else sits at an adjacent table, with their back to Lance, but Lance only needs to see the hunch of shoulders and a hood to fashion a darker sketch at the bottom of his page. Crosshatching and shading it darker, the sketch of a hooded figure looks more like it belongs in a fantasy movie.

 

Lance always finds himself sketching Allura too, their breaks don’t coincide so she’s always behind the register or blending a smoothie into submission.  She looks beautiful even in a gray apron, with her silvery hair tied up into a neat ponytail.

 

Well, Lance has always had a thing for objectively appreciating beauty as deep and artist-y as it sounds.  Allura’s on every few pages because she’s so dynamic, the graceful way she moves from just writing a name on a cup to smiling.  It’s fun to play with lines, some curve-y, some soft, and some sharper, like for her fingers. And Lance knows she keeps every sketch that he decides to give her.  It’s a good exchange, because sometimes she buys him a cup of coffee on a particularly down day.

 

The minutes of his break are steadily ticking away by the time one guy walks into the shop and manages to catch Lance’s wandering eyes. Lance can never tell what exactly makes him crave to draw someone. Sometimes, it’s their hair; there was a period of about a week that Lance drew anyone he saw with a mohawk. Other times, it’s their eyes, God does Lance have a weakness for eyes- or maybe they have a cool fashion sense.

 

Lance guesses it doesn’t really matter because he hasn’t even consciously decided anything before his pencil is moving, black hair, sharp eyebrows and eyes- the way he sits in an unoccupied corner, absorbed in a novel and the folds of his jacket. Lance finds himself immensely satisfied with the not-quite-slouch of his sketch, the barely distinguishable crease of concentration between those eyebrows.

 

Just in the nick of time, Lance folds his sketchbook shut when Allura motions him over from his table- break time is over and bubbly barista Lance makes his return.  That is, if he ever really existed, but listen, Lance tries his best to be good to customers and tone down the awkwardness because Allura watches him like a hawk.

 

The next two hours do speed by quickly enough but Lance can’t help but sweep the room every few minutes only to discover the unfamiliar guy is still sitting there, immersed in his book.

 

Lance wonders what he is reading.

 

“Hm, I’ve never seen him around before,” Allura seems to pick up on Lance’s nearly blatant attentiveness to that one specific corner and its inhabitant. “Do you know him?”

 

Lance absent-mindedly chews his lip. “I… might?”

 

“Oh, well that’s conclusive,” Allura raises her perfect eyebrows, but lets it go when another squadron of caffeine-deprived college hoodlums trail their way in. “Alright, here’s a rag, Lance, go do your thing.”

 

“It’s not my _thing_ ,” huffs Lance, “It’s a _thing_ I’m forced to do to survive in this _Godforsaken world_ -”

 

“Go wipe the goddamn tables, please, Lance, and you’re off the hook for the rest of the night-”

 

“Wait, seriously?” Allura didn’t let people get off early, she just. Didn’t.

 

“Yes, seriously,” she turns to begin helping the newcomers, “I know you’re itching to go over to him. Just do me a favor and don’t trip on your way there.”

 

“ _Sweeeeeeeeet_ ,” Lance has to drag it out, laughing, “Thanks, Allura-”

 

“And don’t get used to it either,” Allura rolls her eyes readily, “Oh, and if I see a single crumb on those tables-” Narrowing her eyes, she gets her point across clearly enough.

 

Lance wipes those tables like a fucking champ.

 

Finally, after every single table and countertop is brighter than his future, Lance meanders his way to the guy at the table, who is, impressively, still reading, and more than halfway done with the book now. Not that Lance has been keeping track or anything.

 

And no, he does not trip, thanks, Allura.

 

“Um, hey,” Lance stops just short of touching the guy’s shoulder, “Keith, right?”

 

Presumably-Keith looks up, brows furrowing slightly as if he hadn’t expected to be interrupted- _shit-_

 

“Who?”

 

“Um- Ah, oops-” Lance is the kinda guy who stammers uncontrollably in this kind of awkward as fuck situation and he’s internally screaming _MISSION ABORT, ABORT MISSION, FISSION MAILED_ -

 

Then the guy breaks into stifled laughter, “Oh my god, I’m kidding, Lance-”

 

“What?!” Lance can’t help squeaking indignantly, “Dude, that’s not cool- I almost had a heart attack, and how do you know _I’m_ Lance?”

 

Keith, because this has to be Keith, is still trailing off with laughter, “You’re wearing a name tag? Hello?”

 

At this, Lance groans and slides his hands over his face- he’d rather have tripped and fallen on his face than to do this to himself. “Oh God-”

 

“Nice apron, by the way,” Keith smirks, “Not like you told me you work here or anything- oh wait-”

 

“Please stop,” Lance is ready to impale himself on a cake pop skewer, he’s so mortified.

 

“Okay, okay, fine,” Keith wipes at his eyes and Lance can’t even tell if he’s serious or not- this is going to be a _problem_.  “Hello, Lance, I’m Keith. I promise.”

 

Lance regards Keith’s extended hand, not even exaggerating his distrust before gingerly shaking it. “Hello, ‘Keith’.” He can’t resist making bunny air quotes.

 

“I’m sorry, I had to do it,” Keith doesn’t sound the slightest bit sorry at all, “It was perfect-”  

 

Now that Lance’s heart has finally eased up on the gas pedal, he really, really sees Keith up close. And he finds it incredibly pleasing the way Keith’s hair falls just short of covering his eyes, the shadows of it leaning into the bridge of his nose. Yes, here is the objective appreciation again, telling Lance that Keith is beautiful and his eyes crinkle when he laughs, and Lance would not mind photographing him at all.

Shaking his head, Keith still sounds too amused for his own good. “You should have seen your face-”

 

“I think you’re it.”  Of course, Lance blurts it out, completely interrupting him.

 

But, Keith doesn’t look that phased, only pleased. “Oh. Yeah, that’s great.”

 

“Uh, I just have to ask, like, what you’re comfortable with and stuff,” Lance feels even more awkward just standing there, so he takes the chair opposite from Keith. “I’m not really sure how many photos I’ll need, exactly, but I’ll try to keep it at a minimum.”

 

“Just saying, I’ve modeled for the,” Keith coughs meaningfully, “Introduction to Paintings class, so I’m pretty much down for anything.”

 

Lance doesn’t follow for a second- he took that exact same class in freshman year, he should know-

 

“Nudity, Lance. I’m cool with that,” deadpans Keith.

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

Silence.

 

“So, uh,” Lance could propel himself to the moon with how hard he’s kicking himself right now, “I’m thinking we’ll probably have to meet up at least once a week? Or something, because I’ll need at least five photographs, but I’m still juggling ideas right now.”

 

Keith nods understandingly, “Yeah, themes and shit, you really have to work it out. I’m usually free past noon on Mondays and Fridays and after seven on every other day besides that. But definitely text me and stuff to arrange the schedule.  Other than my classes, I’m pretty flexible.”

 

“Good to know, dude,” Lance feels his bated breath whoosh out in cool relief. He had been stressing about this, underneath it all. “Hey, you want a coffee or something? My treat.” (Ouch, Lance's wallet stabs at him again.)

 

“Ah, thanks, but I'm alright, I'm actually waiting on someone- and speak of the devil-” Keith is suddenly half standing as he waves slightly over Lance's head. Curious, Lance turns slightly in his seat, but has to look up. And up and up and up.

 

And then the man has passed Lance before he can clearly see him, over to Keith, who's smiling in earnest now. “Shiro,” Keith says simply, not to Lance but just looking at the broad-shouldered man, half out of his chair and reaching out.

 

Lance can pinpoint the exact moment when something clicks, the juggling stops, and his uncertainty ends. And it has everything to do with the way Shiro leans down, hand steadying Keith who is nearly tipping his chair off balance, and meets Keith's lips with his own in the softest greeting.

 

*

 

Once Lance is able to look past the stature of this guy, who has now withdrawn from the kiss because, really, it was nothing more than a small peck- his eyes latch onto Shiro’s face.

 

Inexplicably, Lance is overcome by a swooping sensation in the hollow of his ribcage- and then he realizes that it _is_ explicable, because Lance’s objective appreciation of beauty is back full force and it’s pummeling him with details.

 

The shock of white hair in the midst of Shiro’s undercut doesn’t feel out of place at the least, and strangely, neither does the scar that nearly splits Shiro’s face in half, across the bridge of his nose. Lance realizes from the get-go that Shiro is one of those people who is whole as he is, whenever he is, and wherever he is, even physically- the glint of a prosthetic arm reveals itself to Lance within seconds.

 

Whereas Lance had been immediately drawn to the way Keith had sat, had etched the aura surrounding him, the nearly-slouch, and composed Keith’s features out of sketchy lines of graphite- Shiro is different.  Lance suddenly needs to sculpt larger-than-life replicas of Shiro’s jawline, his neck, the hollow of his throat in alabaster, marble, granite, quartz-

 

Also, very objectively, Shiro has the best shoulder-to-waist ratio that Lance has ever been blessed to see on this earth. Like. _Shit_ , dude.

 

Literally nobody should be allowed to make a black t-shirt look so good.

 

“Lance, is this going to be problem?”  Lance realizes too little too late, Keith is peering at him, one eyebrow perched high and a current of tension running low-

 

“Um-” Yeah, blame the tunnel-vision because Lance did not get _any_ of that-

 

“I _said_ , this is my boyfriend, Shiro- is that going to be a problem?”  Keith’s voice isn’t hard but it’s wary.

 

Lance blinks. Once. Twice. A problem? He can’t see a single flaw between Keith and Shiro, the two of them have stopped the cogs in Lance’s brain completely- _Oh_ . “Oh, _God_ , no-” Well, Lance might be tripping over his words now, which is great. “Not at all, I wouldn’t think of it, I mean, uh- I’m pan so like-”

 

Ten minutes into their conversation and Lance is out and proud. Is that a record?

 

Well, it’s good to see the visible relaxing of Keith’s shoulders anyways, as he nods in understanding. Shiro looks quietly amused and not-at-all worried, so Lance decides it’s time to extend a hand.

 

“Hi, I’m Lance.” Maybe Lance should have started with, “Hi, I’m Not Awkward At All”, because even that would be less weird. But either way, Shiro takes his hand without a moment’s hesitation into a steady grip.

 

Shiro has a smile with gravity. The stars themselves could revolve around that smile. “As you’ve probably heard, I’m Shiro.”

 

With a swift moment, Keith tugs Shiro into the chair next to him after the handshake, and Lance catches the hum of content as Shiro obliges, absent-mindedly flipping through the pages of Keith’s novel for no real reason at all.

“You guys want a coffee or anything?” asks Shiro as he idly begins to smooth out dog-eared pages in the book.

 

“No, I'm really good-” declines Lance

 

Then, Keith notices what Shiro's doing and clutches his wrist, “Come on,you don't need-”  

 

“I remember your page numbers already and it _bothers_ me when you fold the

pages,” Shiro, unbelievably, pouts, and it's terribly effective.

 

“Yeah but the book is mine, so it doesn't _matter_ -”

 

“Use Post-Its, then,” Shiro’s tinge of exasperation is nowhere close to true irritation, and Keith's protests are definitely feeble- this is not the first time they've had this conversation, Lance knows now.

 

“Anyways,” says Keith easily, returning his attention to Lance, “Are we all good here? You have my number?” Yep, saved and given a cute profile picture (a puppy, because who didn’t like puppies).  In all honesty,Lance had already decided Keith was it before meeting him. “I’m not in a rush or anything, but if you don’t need anything else…”

 

“No, we’re all set,” Lance is, unfortunately, loathe to see Keith or Shiro go. But he supposes he’s got to go home anyways and maybe get a jump start on the project-  He has a nagging idea now, in the forefront of his mind, that had exploded the second he saw something in Keith’s eyes, when he had said Shiro’s name. “I’ll contact you with details.”

 

“Alright, I’m looking forward to it,” There’s no way to say if Keith really is, but the way he claps a hand on Lance’s shoulder amicably makes Lance want to believe every word he says. He echoes the words from the night before, “Bye, Lance.”

 

“See you around, Lance,” Shiro echoes and maybe Lance feels good about that too. “I'll buy you coffee next time.” It's a pleasant idea.

 

The turmoil that Lance had been facing, themes, photos, ideas- they had all frozen solid and crashed into place.  And he is sitting in the small campus coffee shop, eyes caught on the way Shiro tucks the novel under one arm and Keith's hand under the other as they walk out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on twitter! Because I need more shklance friends! @celestialchels_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance spills the metaphorical coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun with Chapter 4! Sorry it took so long to upload, I swear I spent 3 hours trying today but I don't have wifi at home and my data is shit.  
> Kudos, comments!! I love you guys, hope you enjoy this <3

Lance is, in a sense, a starving man. Or something.

 

Maybe that’s why he’s always been about taking in what’s around him rather than exposing himself. Maybe that’s why he’s just kind of bad at communicating efficiently in general, because he finds it so much more satisfying to internalize things.

 

Did Lance mention he’s bad at communicating?  Because he is.

 

So there he is, lying on his stomach in bed, laptop screen inches from his face. He’s got a couple commissions he should probably working on, namely a color pencil portrait of an old couple’s dead dog, but right now he’s trying to figure out how to English.

 

_Dear Professor Coran-_

 

No, not that.

 

_Dear Coran-_

 

Better- Coran would probably like that but then again, Lance had never really understood everyone’s need to attach “Dear” before people’s names. What if they weren’t very dear? What if Lance hated Coran’s guts?

 

(Lance, didn’t, but still.) Coran wasn’t his dear _anything._ Whatever. Regular language conventions and social customs aside, at least Lance was writing the first words since he’d pulled out his laptop twenty minutes ago.

 

_I’ve been wondering-_

 

Delete delete delete

 

 _I have a question regarding a prospective_ \- okay, slow down there Lance, what are you, suddenly an English major? - _I have a question about a possible theme for my semester project_.

 

… Not too shabby.

 

This continues for another half hour, because Lance might suck and communicating and maybe like he’s yanking teeth, but he’s not into half-assery. Such is the duality of man, etcetera etcetera.

 

When Lance’s finally done, he presses send and buries his face into his pillow. Commission? Sleep? Commission. Sleep. Commi-

 

All too soon, Gmail gives its little pinging sound, the sound of an incoming email to interrupt Lance’s oh-so-important battle between right and wrong.

 

To: [ lancemcclaimtheprize@gmail.com ](mailto:lancemcclaimtheprize@gmail.com)

From: [ corannycc@nycc.us.edu ](mailto:corannycc@nycc.us.edu)

Subject: Re:Lance McClain Project Question

 

Dear Lance,

Sure thing. :)

 

-Professor Coran

NYCC Staff                   

 

Lance stares at his laptop screen for a good fifteen seconds. Squints his eyes. Tilts his head to the side, like maybe it’ll reveal some hidden text.

 

Nope. Lance had spent half an hour composing a concise, coherent email, fitting of his mental prowess and this is what he gets in return.

 

_Sure thing. :)_

*

 

 **Lance** : Hey there “Keith”

 **Keith** : wo r u

*who

 **Lance** : haha very funny

 **Keith** : dangit I thought that would work

 **Lance** : fool me once…

Anyways I have an idea for the photos

But its different

Kind of different from what I was first thinking

 **Keith** : oh ideas are good

Glad to know u got some

 **Lance** : yeah the thing is, would you mind meeting up with me again?

Feel like the idea is easier to explain in person

 **Keith** : oh no prob, I get u

Im ok with same place same time tomorrow ?

 **Lance** : yeah thats perfect

Also bring Shiro

Im cashing in on the coffee offer

 **Keith** : lmfao ok

*

 

Allura, incidentally, does not let Lance off early the next day, but hey, Lance didn’t think she would anyways. It’s a Friday so there does seem to be a subtle increase in activity, if only of people desperately trying to survive the death throes of the week.

 

Damn, Lance should have been a poet.

 

Keith shows up early again with a small wave before settling into a different corner this time. Luckily, Al-tea and Coffee doesn’t really have a “pay to stay” kind of deal because, look, it’s college, and Allura wouldn’t be cold-hearted enough to enforce that kind of rule anyways. Most people do buy food or a drink, but there are a few who use time to study or even nap.

 

It’s great, especially like today, when Lance finds some goodness in his heart and removes the phone from a snoring freshman’s loosening grip and places it in the kid’s hoodie pocket. He can thank Lance later. Or, more likely, he won’t but that’s okay.

 

When Lance’s shift is finally over, he realizes he’s been clammy and wiping his palms into his jeans for ages now. He supposes it’s a bit irrational to be so worried about how the idea will be received. Not really. Kind of.

 

It just feels personal, Lance guesses. What if Keith laughs in his face?

 

Or worse, what if he thinks the idea is weird?

 

It’s not _that_ weird.

 

Lance settles into the seat in front of Keith, but gets no response, because Keith is still reading.  It’s almost alarming the small amount of pages in the novel left.  Keith had been only halfway through the day before, right?  “What are you reading anyways?”

 

The noncommittal grunt is probably not a book title.

 

“Yo, Keithhhh,”

 

With a heavy sigh Keith lets his book fall, pinning Lance with a very clear gaze of exasperation. “The Martian. Heard of it?”

 

Needless to say, Lance has a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen when he smirks and says, “Well, I’ve watched the movie. It's just as good, right?”

It’s comical the way Keith’s face shuts down, his eyebrows drop to nearly straight lines and his eyes become weapons of mass, unimpressed destruction. “You’d better be kidding.”

 

The thing is, Lance isn’t. Well, not really, because The Martian was a really great movie. Maybe the way he stifles his laughter is a dead giveaway about his sincerity because Keith shakes his head in disgust.

“This is it,” he deadpans, “I can’t work with you anymore- there’s no way- _Shiro_ , thank God-”

 

Apparently, Shiro had walked up unnoticed and now Keith immediately clings to him.

 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” his voice is somewhat muffled in the front of Shiro’s shirt, “I’ve been in contact with an imbecile, it’s too late for me, I’ve been _infected-_ ”

 

“Woah, slow down there, tiger,” laughs Shiro, resting a hand in Keith’s tousled, black hair, “Now what has Lance done to be called an imbecile?”  He sounds so indulgent and looks over to Lance with a look like _Can you believe him_?

 

Without lifting his face, Keith points straight at Lance- the gesture is somehow still accusatory. “He said the movies are just as good as the books.”

“Um-” Lance attempts to defend his case but then Shiro gasps theatrically.

 

“He _didn’t!_ ”

 

“He did,” is the sorrowful reply.

If Lance’s ears do not deceive him there’s a small sniffling noise, as if Keith were really brought to tears and weeping into Shiro’s rock-hard abs or something.

 

It's a hilarious image alright. Meanwhile, Shiro has begun patting Keith’s head consolingly, soothingly smoothing his hair, shushing his pretend crying

 

What the fuck. Lance did not know he had signed up to deal with a fucking _drama queen_.

 

“You can’t just _say_ things like that,” Shiro was happily playing along, of course, looking convincingly affronted. “That’s not allowed-”

“Um, please,” Lance scoffs, “I’m a _visual_ artist? Let me appreciate visual art please and the graphics were incredible-”

There’s a vague choking sound from Keith-

 

“And also Sebastian Stan? Flawless.  His face alone is a work of art in of itself.”

 

At that, Keith finally emerges, though his arms remain looped around Shiro’s unbelievably slim waist. “You’re not wrong.” It’s grudging admittance and suspicious eyes and Lance is lowkey frustrated just because he still can’t tell if Keith is serious or not. He can’t be actually upset. Right?  “At least you know Sebastian.”

Lance is used to being able to read people, that’s his _thing_ . People might not know that- God knows he’s been called shallow and dumb enough in his life- but he _gets_ people, or at least he’s supposed to. Keith is near unreadable though.

 

Finally, after Shiro detaches Keith’s arms from around his waist and manages to order them all coffees (tall iced macchiato for Shiro, iced latte for Keith, and a blessed, beautiful frappuccino for Lance), they settle in the chairs again, each with their respective caffeinated beverages.

“So,” Keith begins, maybe with a smirk that Lance almost despises. It makes him uncomfortable- Lance can see that smirk become an upturned press of confusion, or maybe a look of distaste. “You wanted to explain your theme? You have your coffee, now spill.”

 

“The coffee?”

 

Yes, Lance suffers from Make-Bad-Jokes-When-Uncomfortable-Syndrome. It’s unfortunate.

 

Both Keith and Shiro shoot him a look that clearly says they see right through Lance and the way he’s wringing a 100% biodegradable, recycled, eco-friendly, Allura-Approved napkin in his hands.

 

“Okay, okay,” Lance relents as he drops the napkin in surrender, waving the white, or rather, grayish-brown, forest-saving, flag. “So. It’s a bit weird, I guess. Uh-”

 

Keith doesn’t look very impressed and it’s really putting Lance off- his words warp before reaching his tongue, wrapping themselves around his larynx instead of flowing out like they’re supposed to. He knew this was going to happen.

 

“-So we’re supposed to be exploring truth in people, and um-”

 

It’s not that they look bored exactly, it’s just they want him to get to the point and he just?

 

“-I couldn’t help but think of a universal truth-”

 

Maybe it’s the way that even Shiro looks expectant and, God, Lance hates the look of disappointment that he’ll get-

 

“And yesterday, I, uh, saw you guys and I thought-”

 

Keith takes a deep breath and for a split second, Lance thinks maybe he’ll grind his teeth and say “Spit it out, already”- but instead he just stills Lance with a hand held up in the air. “Lance. You gotta breathe, man.”

 

Ah, yes, oxygen is a thing.

 

“Is it me?” Shiro looks concerned, “I mean, I can go-”

 

“No, please-” the breath whooshes right out of Lance again, like he’s the stress ball in the hands of a corporate bigman. “This actually… involves you.”

The pair look even more confused now, and Lance backpedals at the speed of light. “Uh- I mean, it involves you, if you _want_ it to, I’m not- it’s a voluntary basis-”

Okay, Lance only draws comfort from the fact that at this point, there’s no way he can fuck up any harder than he already has. Another deep breath to fill the unfillable. The breathe leaves, once, and Lance takes it back one more time.

 

“So, I was thinking about,” Lance swallows hard, “the universal truth, you know, of love-” he’s unconsciously twisting the napkin again, winding and unwinding it around his index finger, “And I really came to the idea of that truth when I saw you two yesterday-” that’s not too creepy, right? Right- “So I was wondering if both of you want to be my models instead of just Keith.”

 

And Lance takes the last fleeting moment to admire the say Keith has been leaning slightly into Shiro’s side this whole time. It’s natural the way Shiro smooths down his tuft of shockingly white hair as he seems to ponder the idea, glancing down at a silent Keith. Lance takes what he’s sure is his last chance.

 

Lance is a starving man- and when he actually chases these things, they hardly work out. He hates finding inspiration in such strange places.

 

Surprisingly enough, it’s Shiro who answers first. “Sounds like a cool idea, actually.” And Keith isn’t far behind either, with a small smile that mirrors Shiro’s encouraging one.

 

“Why were you so nervous, Lance?” Keith has the kind of laughter that is always sharp but not constantly drawing blood. “It sounds like a good, artsy theme. Love- professors usually go apeshit for that, don’t they? God, my Prose and Poetry professor cried real tears whenever anyone brought up love.”

 

“Wait- so-” Lance feels like a droplet of opaque pigment balancing at the tip of a bristle brush- the droplet trembles, clinging still- then the droplet falls- “You mean, yes?”

 

“Yeah,” snorts Keith, “C’mon, it’s not that weird- you really had me worried there for a second, honestly-”

 

“We can think of it as the next step to our relationship,” laughs Shiro, threading his and Keith’s fingers together on the table, “Something fun. Also, we’ll make sure you get the highest grade possible.”

 

“We’ll be the _best_ fucking. Models. _Ever_.” says Keith with an astounding degree of ferocity.

 

Lance didn’t think he’d even get this far, honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NYCC stands for New York City College, and is completely fictional- the emails used are also fictional haha, but I'm contemplating make an email like Lance's just for fun.  
> P.S. I love Sebastian Stan  
> @celestialchels_ on twitter, hmu yall


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance takes the first photo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy yall, I was out of the country for a week so yes, I'm a bit late to update. Still, sweet chapter for me, personally. <3  
> Kudos, comments, love me because I already love you~

“Alright, what about a ride home?” Shiro offers, nearly immediately after Lance stutters something about having to get home to work on the schematics of the project. 

 

“I’m… not going to say no, but only if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble,” Lance only hesitates momentarily- usually he has to take the metro but a direct car ride would be faster.

 

“Nope,” Shiro reassures him and Keith nods beside him, sticking his book into a small backpack, “I mean, you don’t live out of the city, do you?”

 

“Nah, no way, haha, commute pricing would bust my ass,” to be honest, Lance knows maybe three people who don’t live within ten minutes of NYCC- it just doesn’t happen. “Bye, Allura!” Lance calls out as the three of them walk out the door and Allura waves goodbye, a perfect strand of silvery hair across her temple. 

 

“Here,” says Keith, handing Lance his phone, “Type the address and we’re good to go.” 

And before Lance knows it, they’re in Shiro’s black Volvo, speeding down the busy streets. Oh wait, did Lance say speeding? No, they’re stuck in traffic, as per usual.

 

“Well,” Shiro is amicable as always, even as another driver has the nerve to swerve right in front, “It is about the time everyone gets off work.”  Keith, on the other hand, looks like he’s two seconds from exploding. “Sorry about the traffic, Lance, you probably would have gotten home faster with the metro, huh?”

 

“Oh, it’s fine,” Lance is actually. Content. Sure, they’ve been honked at for no reason about five times now, and Keith’s eyebrow (maybe Lance is exaggerating) might be twitching, but this is good. “Mind if I?” He trails off, leaning forward from the backseat to turn on the radio- waiting for Shiro’s consenting nod before going ahead. He doesn’t bother switching stations because the first thing that comes on is just the kind of mindless pop song that Lance loves when he’s in cars. 

 

Traffic eases with soft conversation, only sporadically interrupted when Siri makes her presence known with directions. It’s soft conversation because it doesn’t pertain to much importance, it’s easy. It’s soft because it cushions the traffic and Keith softens too, probably when he realizes that Lance isn’t particularly in a hurry anyways. It’s soft because it’s comfortable, the way Keith and Shiro incorporate him into the conversation, and lapse into their own conversations sometimes.

 

Maybe others would feel like a third wheel, but it’s hard to feel left out when Lance can see Keith settle into the headrest when he looks at Shiro, asking him something about dinner plans.  And it doesn’t even feel the slightest bit like Lance is being excluded because Shiro’s smile is too small- too indulgent- it doesn’t feel like he’s being pushed out because Lance would risk everything to keep them perfect anyways.

 

Lance sits back against the seat and vividly sees a sign saying Keep Off The Grass- just for an instant. It’s almost funny, but then the pounding pop song is over and the next song starts out with the gentle strumming of acoustic guitar. 

 

It doesn’t matter if Lance isn’t familiar with the song, or if the sudden silence that falls in between the beginning measures of the song would usually prompt Lance to laugh awkwardly and crack an awful joke. It doesn’t matter because Keith gives a tiny sigh, the satisfied kind that no one thinks about before giving, and Lance sees the outlines of their faces too clearly against the late, late afternoon light that slants in past the tall buildings and bends in through the windshield.

 

Fortunately, Lance had already had his phone in his lap-  then it’s up, and the picture is silent, instantaneous- perfect.

 

Coran had never said they had to use the Canons for pictures- obviously they would yield higher quality pictures than a phone camera, but Lance thinks this is a good start. Actually it’s a perfect start.

The song, and Lance still doesn’t know the name, trails off with the sweetness of Shiro tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, and Keith humming under his breath.

 

*

 

It doesn’t take much for Lance to decide how he’s going to organize the photographs. Initially, he’d thought that would be the hardest part, since organization of the photos is so important, the portrayal is crucial, Lance knows. But then Lance realizes he’d love to take the pictures in contrasting pairs.

 

The duality of man and all that. 

 

As it turns out, Lance spends the next hour or so making notes in his sketchbook, some vaguely abstract ideas, others clear as day in his mind’s eye.  It’s relaxing, letting his mind run rampant for a while, skirting around concepts and latching onto others. Not having confirmation about the success of the idea, of Shiro and Keith together, had held Lance back, but not anymore. 

 

By the time Lance eases his sketchbook closed, he’s feeling more optimistic than he’s been in days, and he also knows what they’re going to do first.

 

**Lance:** yo keith

ever heard of the Extraterrestrial Fair?

It’s open for the next month or so

**Keith:** ??? Wth is that

im game tho

 

**Lance:** bring ur boyfriend, this is a mission

mission IMPOSSIBLE

 

**Keith:** UR impossible

OK, what time tho

 

**Lance:** Sunday, the Day of the Lord?

Fair opens at night because it’s special. ;) so around 6-9?

 

**Keith:** ok thank youuuu ill tell shiro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @celestialchels_ on tweeter dot com  
> I need more Shklance frens, come chat with me


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the nerds get to the space fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello there, this chapter should be named "in which the author wrote too much and had to divide the space fair chapter into multiple parts" or maybe "in which the author makes really sucky chapter summaries" because let's face it, they're not the greatest.  
> anyways, let them have fun at the space fair.

Lance actually has pretty extensive memories of the Extraterrestrial Fair. In all Fair-ness, haha, the name isn’t exactly catchy and Lance remembers having a crazy time trying not to mutilate the syllables of “extraterrestrial” as an eight-year-old. 

 

The fair is less of a famous attraction than a small-scene, local event, but Lance loves the hell out of it.  Nostalgia makes him a weak, weak soul.

 

Also, they have a cute little ferris wheel and Lance knows just what he has in mind.

 

“So, is this gonna be like, a thing?” Lance drawls as Shiro pulls to a stop in front of the apartment, window rolled down and arm resting half in-half out, as casual as can be.  “You being my chauffeur?” It’s a clear-skied Sunday evening and the velvet darkness is settling in steadily.

 

“No,” calls out Keith as he leans forward to see past Shiro, “He’s  _ my  _ chauffeur, you’re just borrowing his services momentarily.”

 

Shiro rolls his eyes, but nods at Lance, “Get in, loser, we’re-”

 

There’s a light smack to Shiro’s arm- it rings out briefly since it’s his prosthetic- “No _ Mean Girls _ references, Takashi!” 

 

Shiro makes a face at Keith for that, maybe one of mutiny or spite, but Lance is clambering into the backseat with which he’s probably going to become quite familiar with so he doesn’t catch  _ that  _ particular Kodak moment. 

 

Lance hopes the weight of the camera slung around his neck will get less unwieldy with time. For now, he balances the weight of it on his lap, keeping his fingers on the durable (probably bulletproof) fabric of the camera bag. “So, why aren’t Mean Girls references allowed? Just curious-”

 

“I,” Keith draws a huge breath, “Have had  _ enough  _ of Mean Girls to last a lifetime- I  _ swear  _ to God-”

 

“Keith,” laughs Shiro, “Come on, it’s not that bad-”

 

Keith completely ignores Shiro’s protest, whirling around to face Lace with an expression of a haunted man. “We watched Mean Girls one time.  _ One _ .  _ Time _ . And for a whole three months-” Lance is already curling forward with laughter- “ _ nothing _ but Mean Girls references! ‘Gretchen’  _ this _ , ‘Gretchen’  _ that- _ ” Keith’s voice escalates to the point of hysteria, “God! He would randomly turn to me when it rained and talk about  _ boobs _ !”

 

Shiro’s laughing now too, it’s stifled because he’s still driving, but Lance is almost sideways on his seat, wheezing, just because of Keith’s wild eyes and the way he waves his arms. Spastic, but it gets the point across. 

 

It takes several heaving breaths before Lance is able to choke out what he wants to say. “Dont- have sex-  _ you’ll get pregnant and die _ -” And his composure dissolves again at how aghast Keith looks.

 

“No-” Keith gasps, “There are two of you-”

 

“Deal with it,” snickers Shiro, leaning away when Keith swats him again.

 

It takes ages for Lance to be able to sit up and breathe normally, only to break into giggling again when he sees Keith’s glowering from the passenger front seat.  

 

“Listen,” Keith’s tone is cool- Lance is still unnerved by how good at switching gears this guy is. At first sight, Lance had thought maybe he was a more withdrawn person, but clearly, Keith is able to pull off any facade he wants. “I’m willing to overlook this. For the sake of this business partnership- just- let’s pretend this never happened.”

 

Lance hums an agreement, but the kind that trails off because he’s totally going to drive Keith up the wall with Mean Girl quotes later. 

 

“So, tell us about the fair,” Shiro directs them in the right direction, “I tried looking it up but there wasn’t much to be found besides a very malnourished webpage briefly talking about space.”

 

Tilting his head, Lance tries to sum up the fair into words, minus his aforementioned emotional attachments, “It’s like. A small local fair and they do a lot of cute, space themed stuff? It started when I was really young and it’s actually an annual charity-type event; the money made is donated to the Horton’s Observatory.”

 

“ _ Oh _ ,” Keith makes a pleased sound, “I love the observatory- I never knew they had this fair.”

 

Shiro nods in agreement. “I’m fond of Horton’s as well- I’ve never heard of the fair either?”

 

“Probably because it doesn’t get much attention,” laughs Lance, “It’s more tradition than real fundraising at this point- tickets for everything are priced low so almost everyone can get in.” Growing up without too much spare cash, this had been a major reason why the fair had even caught his family’s attention. 

 

But one night in and Lance had been hooked on the stars, the sky, the outer unknown. 

 

“Okay,” Keith admits, “Now I’m even more excited-”

 

And now Lance gives a shaky laugh- expectations, expectations, “Don’t get your hopes up too high, Keith- there’s a reason why it’s not like a popular destination-”

 

“Ah, stop,” Shiro waves Lance off, “It’s going to be great- after all we have a soft spot for space anyways, don’t we, Keith?” It’s not a prod, no, it’s a genuine little smile to go with Keith’s answering nod, a quick duck of his head. 

 

“So, you guys are a coupla space nerds?” asks Lance with a smirk.

 

“Guess you can say that, yeah,” concedes Keith but it sounds like there’s a whole story there, in between his words, and damned if Lance wants to know it, and know why they’re both smiling to themselves.

 

But it also feels like a story for another time, not when they’re pulling into Northfield Park’s open lot. “Good, because me too.” 

 

*

 

The first thing they see, rightfully so, is a large thinly constructed sign of sorts, almost like an overpass. It’s a bit dinky and run-down, but Lance can tell it’s been painted over a few times, so they made a bit of an effort at least.

 

**“Extraterrestrial Fair- Because It’s Out of this World!”**

The tacky words are lit up with lights, and the background of the sign is a vague attempt at a galaxy, with some purplish orbs, some shooting stars. 

 

Lance can’t help it. “It’s not much, but-”

 

Shiro appears on one side and Keith on the other. “Hush, we don’t want to hear it,” says Shiro, not in any way antagonistic. 

 

Keith on the other hand, follows up with a concise, “Shut the hell up, Lance.”

 

“It’s charming,” muses Shiro, which is very kind of him, and does make Lance feel a bit better. It was beginning to occur to Lance that maybe the fair had seemed like a great place to start only because of his own emotional investment and bias.

 

Well, it’s too late now. 

Before they pass the entrance, there’s a small booth where an old man sits with a money box and a variety of stamps, glasses perched precariously on his face with how widely he’s smiling.  Lance, too, has to smile at the sight of him, (Don, according to his space pin) eager to stamp the backs of their hands after they each pay the five dollar fare. 

“Enjoy your time, boys!” Don calls out after their thank-yous and good-byes, and Lance is struck a little by how content the man is, at his post, greeting the newcomers and stamping their hands.

 

Studying the back of his hand, Keith nudges both of them. “I got Venus- pretty sure cause it’s pink and orange- what about you guys?” 

 

“Aww, cute. I got Earth,” Lance holds up his hand to show them the little planet under his knuckles, “Gee, I always have loved Earth, I wonder why?”

 

Shiro holds up his next, tell-tale rings around his planet. “Saturn,” he sounds fond, but then again Lance thinks that maybe Shiro is going to sound fond about everything.

 

“Alright,” Lance claps his hands together, camera hanging heavy against his abdomen, “First off. You guys hungry?” There is a familiar aroma in the air, a mixture of sweets and salties- it might just be the memories associated, but Lance can almost hear the sound of frying oil, sizzling away.

 

Keith shrugs, curious eyes flicking around to the various booths before them, catching on the lit up ferris wheel in the distance, “Sure, we had a late lunch so I could really use some food. Shiro?”

 

“Starving” Shiro answers. The way he can’t stop his easy grin as he observes their surroundings is comforting. Keith looks similarly charmed, and Lance eases off the Anxiety Pedal. Or tries to. 

 

And so begins their trek through the food booths- space themed foods of all kind, space nerd galore, but they only make it to the first booth before-

There’s a gasp- “Oh my God,” Keith breaks into a grin, “they have-”

 

“Are those?” Shiro pauses to look as well, and clearly, his interest has been caught.

 

Lance confirms their suspicions. “Yep. Planet cake pops.” They have them every year, and every year they get a little more creative, a little cuter. All of the planets are lined up in rows, including Pluto- though half the size of the other ones. Then again, there is a sign indicating that the Plutos are sold in pairs to compensate. 

 

Keith whips out his wallet, “This is it, I’m gonna do it, try and stop me-”  Shiro laughs at Keith’s eagerness and makes no move to intervene whatsoever as he picks out three of the cakepops from the stand: Venus, Earth, and Saturn.  “My treat,” says Keith before Lance can protest, and then Lance is holding the stick- supporting the Earth- in his hand and it’s a work of culinary art. 

 

It’s almost ridiculous the amount of space-themed food that they find, paired with ridiculous names, including onion rings called Saturn’s Rings, deep-fried ice cream called Crispy Comets, and smoothies called Jupiter’s Great Red Spot.  Don’t get Lance started on the planet shaped donuts? And the Nebulae Cotton Candy? Oh, and they have Big Bang Popcorn?

 

At one point, Keith and Shiro are almost brought to tears because they discover Crater Cookies- it’s not even that funny, but, well, their hysterics make Lance double over too.

 

Shiro isn't even exaggerating when he wipes tears from his eyes, “It's just- everything is so endearing, and I didn't even know this many space references existed-”

 

Then they get to one of the last few food booths. 

 

Keith cackles maniacally. And Lance doesn't use the term “maniacally” very often at all.  But that's what it is.

 

In response, Shiro makes a choked sound, like he's halfway between his own laughter and gagging.  “No, Keith, baby, no-”

 

“Yes. Yes!” Keith is shaking his head, still cackling, and proceeds to drag Shiro over to the booth while Shiro half-heartedly digs his boots into the ground.

 

And lo and behold, it's the infamous Space Food booth. No, it's not space themed food. It's space food. Like the dehydrated stuff. In the vacuumed bags.

 

Shiro's laughter is everything and Lance is  _ alive  _ because they've been so giggly, and it makes the clouds inside part when he hears this. He's glad they're having fun when he'd been afraid they would feel out of place or even unimpressed.

 

“I'm not gonna do it-” Shiro's almost making a show of pulling out of Keith's grasp but he's still there and Keith is definitely enjoying himself. 

 

“Come on, please, you can do it, for old time’s sake, Shiro-”

 

The protests grow more feeble, “I can't, I don't wanna-”

 

“Come on,” snickers Keith with the air of a man who knows he's won, “We can all share and suffer together-”

 

Shiro crumbles like a warm Crater Cookie. Groaning, he digs out his own wallet, then gingerly picks out the sharp, reflective packet of space food, labeled vanilla ice cream.  

 

“Oh,” Lance says in a hushed tone of voice, “So that’s what we’re gonna do.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Keith looks devilish in this light, “It’s gonna be fun.”

 

“No it’s not,” mumbles Shiro, “I have had bad experiences with space food, this is cruel and unusual punishment-”

 

Keith doesn’t wait for him to finish before reaching over to tear open the package, “Alright looks like this is our main course tonight, guys.”

 

Of course, there’s apprehension from Lance, because he’s had space-ice-cream before, and because everyone knows that tourist-grade space food is, to put it nicely, horrid. Maybe NASA-grade freeze-dried might be better, but honestly? How does one dehydrate ice cream and still call it ice cream? 

 

But, Lance has to admit that maybe, just maybe, he thinks it might taste better, in the company of these two. Like, logically, he guesses that he knows it won’t, because space-food. But he’s a little eager to try the “ice cream” anyways, as Keith carefully divides the crumbly block into three.

 

Reluctantly, Shiro takes his portion with stiff fingers. “Is it just me or is it green?”

 

“It’s the lighting, Shiro,” reassures Keith, “Seriously, just go for it-”

 

Now, Lance has never heard Shiro whine like a small child, but he’s doing it now, “Are you  _ sure- _ ”

 

Lance doesn’t even take an extra breath before taking a bite of the gray-looking (yes it’s the lighting) block in his hand- he promptly makes a muffled coughing sound as the “ice cream” proceeds to suck every single drop of moisture out of his mouth and adhere to the roof of his mouth- 

 

Vaguely, Lance is aware of Keith making similar choking noises as they take bites of the “ice cream” and then there’s sound of Shiro slapping his forehead and groaning, “Oh my god, they’re going to die-”, but really, Lance is too busy trying to chew the softening mush that tastes almost sickly sweet and kind of smells like vanilla to really know what’s going on. 

 

In short, Lance’s eyes are burning by the time he manages to swallow down the last of the stuff- the consistency had felt a lot like styrafoam at first and Lance thinks that’s what had really gotten to him initially. Judging from the relieved breathing beside him, Keith survived the ordeal as well.

 

“Tada,” Lance sing-songs weakly.

 

To say that Shiro looks done is a bit of an understatement. “I’m not going to eat it.”

 

“Just do it,” Keith wraps an arm around him, “C’mon, Lance and I did it, don’t be a wimp-”

 

“This is peer pressure,” huffs Shiro, “Why do people do this? ‘Oh, this tastes terrible, you try!’ and the person tries-”

 

“It’s really not that bad,” Lance wipes any residual tears, “I mean. You’ll live.”

 

“Party pooper,” grumbles Keith, but he hugs Shiro anyways. 

 

“Fine.” Shiro stuffs the whole piece in his mouth at once- Keith claps a hand over his mouth and Lance might yell “ _ No! _ ” because you just- you don’t do that. 

 

Later, after much vigorous back-clapping and coughing and wheezing and Lance running to a booth begging for a cup of water- they find themselves at an abandoned bench, Keith is pretty much sitting in Shiro’s lap, facing him, halfway laughing but mostly apologizing between bouts of chuckling.

 

“I hate you-” Shiro’s words are barely intelligible in the fabric of Keith’s black sweater, but Lance can still hear it. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Keith says for the upteenth time, “But no one said you had to eat it all at once-”

 

“-I hate you-” But there is no heat behind the words and Shiro eventually looks up with his white streak a mess and his eyes tired. “I’m never going to do anything you say, ever again.”

 

“Fair enough,” Lance gives Shiro a few final comforting pats, “I think this near-death experience has taught us all something.”

 

Shiro lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I hate space food.” Silence settles, a comfortable glow like the various booth signs they’ve seen, soft like the ferris wheel lights circling in the distance. Finally, Shiro lets out a sigh, “Can we go play some of the booth games?”

 

“Of course,” Keith hops off of him, “Let’s go play all the games you want- because we’re edgy and blow our money off at fairs instead of at casinos!”

 

The booths behind the food area are all various games- like the kind you’d see at carnivals, complete with cheap stuffed animals for prizes. Shiro does best with the Strength-O-Meter, no-fucking-duh- the little meter shoots all the way to the top and Lance doesn’t know if he should be impressed or laugh because of course Shiro’s strong as fuck, _ of course _ .

“Here, I won this for you,” Shiro hands Keith the small teddy bear with the Horton’s Observatory logo embroidered on its chest. 

“Awww,” Keith coos, “How sweet-” He leans up to peck Shiro’s cheek, “What a stud.” 

“Hold up,” Lance points to a nearby booth, “That right there, that’s my specialty- I’ll win you a better prize, Keith.”

 

Keith hums, eyebrows raised, “Did you hear that Shiro? You’ve got competition.” 

 

“Huh,” Shiro doesn’t even bat an eye, “Well, we’ll see about that.”

 

The booth sports a giant sign with rocket ships on it, saying,  **Journey to the Stars!** It’s the kind of game where there are water guns and the target is a little hole and the more water you get there, the higher the rocket goes. And it’s the kind of game that eight-year-old Lance played obsessively because he thought he was going to grow up to become a sharpshooter.

Anyways, victory comes swift and sweet, along with a stuffed moon with an adorable face.  Shiro is a good-natured loser, not even hanging his head, but instead requesting to squish the moon before letting Keith grab hold of it.

 

“Uh,” Keith has his arms full now, “I think I know whose prize is better, Shiro.”

 

“Size isn’t everything, you know.”

Lance has no idea how Shiro manages to say that with a straight face- and just as he thinks that, Shiro’s composure shatters and he’s doubled over again at his own joke. Or maybe it’s a joke. 

To be honest, Lance looks at Keith, then at Shiro, and then a mental image of himself and he knows. Yeah, if size were everything, he knows  _ exactly  _ who would win  _ that  _ particular game. 

“You’re real funny,” says Keith breezily, “It’s okay, I’ll beat all your asses at the next game.”

“Uh,” Lance is dubious to say the least, “I beg to differ?” 

 

“You heard what I said, hotshot-”

 

“Uh, for your information, I’ve played every game in this fair at least ten times-”

 

“Let’s just say I’m naturally gifted, Lance-”

 

“How about you two stop squabbling?” A heavy arm settles over Lance, the other loops over Keith, and Shiro chuckles in a very wise manner. “We all know I’m going to be winning anyways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, Comments, questions, concerns! <3 love you so much!! (go find me on twitter, I'm not even going to put my @ anymore)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a Ferris wheel involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 lots of love to everyone, thank you all for kudos and comments oh my god! Best way to motivate me honestly. Hope you've been enjoying this haha, the space fair is fun and cute. ;)

After having their fair share of the games- and trust Lance, there were enough strange glances at them, a couple of grown-ass men giggling at space games- Lance pats the camera at his chest. 

“So, where do you want us?” smirks Keith, though he doesn’t look so tough with his abundance of plushies.  “Any specific poses? I’m just gonna say that if Shiro gets drunk enough, he has a great Blue Steel-” Shiro sputters but, for once, Lance doesn’t let their banter go on. 

 

He just points, up at the ferris wheel. 

 

The line for the ferris wheel is actually excruciatingly long, but Lance figures it’s a good time as ever to explain the basics of what he’s planning. If he’s planning. To be honest, Lance has ideas but not solid plans- fake it till you make it seemed apt for this whole project, for some reason. “So, uh, you two will take a gondola for yourselves and I’ll just take one by myself- don’t worry about posing or anything, just pretend I’m not even here.”

 

Keith narrows his eyes slightly as he thinks. “You know… saying that only makes it harder for us to ignore you- if you tell me ‘pretend I’m not here’ I’m going to be pretending you’re not there so hard that I’ll just be thinking about how you’re actually, really ther-”

 

“Sounds good,” Shiro interjects, “I’ll make sure he behaves himself.” Keith is pulled reluctantly into a side hug- Shiro makes sure to ruffle his hair - to Keith’s horror. There’s some screeching and of course Shiro has completely recovered from nearly dying, and by the time they reach the front of the line, most of the parents and their young children (most of the people at the fair were parents and young children) look more annoyed than anything. 

As it turns out, there’s a requirement of at least two people per gondola- so Shiro and Keith get their own while Lance gets to share one with a dad-daughter duo.  He gives an awkward smile to them as he shuffles past to sit in a corner, getting his camera ready. 

 

The ride starts with a creaking groan and the gondola swings jerkily- Lance grips the camera- haha no way he's going to drop this baby- not happening- and settles in for the ride.  It's quite an impressively sized ferris wheel, given that its gotta be somewhat portable, and Lance remembers it fondly, having ridden it so many times as a kid. The slight breeze caused by the turning of the wheel is refreshing- and almost distracting because Lance nearly forgets why he's really there. 

 

On the gondola above, though the angle is actually pretty bad, Lance can see Shiro and Keith sitting on one side of the carriage.  And for a second, Lance really does forget about the camera in his hands. He thinks it's the lighting- the moon is full and bright- or maybe the string of gaudy carnival-esque music that somehow leads him astray. Maybe it's the way Keith's shoulders shake from laughter when Shiro makes a show of stretching to place his arm around Keith- and it's impossible, but Lance can almost hear the way Keith laughs.

 

Before he can really think of it, Lance is snapping pictures- the shutter clicks and freezes in place the dark blocks of steel bars, criss-crossing, and the farthest, darkest shapes of  _ KeithandShiro-  _ the shape solid and one- as they lean into each other. The moon itself isn't in the picture (no way, that'd be way too perfect of a picture, pictures like that don't  _ happen  _ in real life) but it provides an ambient glow at the edges. 

 

The night sky isn't pitch-black, no, it seems backlit somehow, maybe an lowly-saturated purple, but what counts is the contrast of the machinery and the background, the perfect, straight lines that combine with the crooked silhouettes. Flashing lines of colorful light from the side of the ferris wheel skirt the very ends of the picture, barely there, but adding a nice bit of concentrated color to the overall photo. 

 

It seems almost too easy, but things don't come easy in Lance's experience, so he takes at least ten other photos after the first few. The first are his favorite though, no doubt. 

 

When the ride grinds to a stop and Lance gets off his carriage, Shiro and Keith are already off, waiting for him.

"So, did you get what you needed?" asks Shiro, who is now, strangely, without a jacket. 

"Yeah- um- you're not-?" Lance doesn't finish asking if Shiro is cold or not because he realizes that Shiro's jacket is around Keith's shoulders. 

 

"Oops," Keith shrugs, half-sheepish, "I got cold so I begged it off him. Oh, thank you, by the way." The last part is directed playfully at Shiro, as if Keith had only just remembered.

 

"No problem, princess," Shiro does a very Shiro-like chuckle thing, though Lance isn't exactly sure how he's come to the conclusion of what exactly qualifies as "Shiro-like", and Keith doesn't even protest at the nickname. 

 

Lance re-settles the camera in its case around his neck before looking back up at the ferris wheel with its flashing neon lights going in patterns.  "I missed this ferris wheel- is that weird?" He hadn't really been to the fair in years- since he started college, actually. The last time he'd come here was with Hunk and Pidge, before graduation. 

 

"Nah." Keith shrugs, "It's not that weird. You've been here like a billion times, right? Getting attached to inanimate objects you only see once a year? Totally not weird."

"I'm going to... ignore the sarcasm there," mutters Lance. 

 

"Hey, why don't we go again?" Keith suggests sincerely. "We're here already and the lines shorter now- look."

He's right, and Shiro nods in agreement. "All three of us this time, how about that? Then you won't be stuck with random people."

 

"Nope, just us," In the evening light, Keith's grin seems luminescent. "The awfully PDA-overdose couple." 

 

Its an infectious grin, that's what it is. Lance can't help but feel a little accepted, a little welcomed. No, he can't help but drown a little in that feeling, just for a second. "Well, I can't refuse that offer, can I?" 

  
  


*

(When they get in the gondola, Shiro and Keith argue over who gets to sit with Lance. It's almost funny, but then Shiro complains that if he has to be without a jacket, he can at least be the one to hog the extra source of body heat (Lance) and Keith grumbles but assents to sit on one side by himself, huddled in Shiro's jacket.  Ultimately, Keith ends up smiling- Shiro exaggerates his shivering and Lance almost drops the camera when Shiro holds onto his arm. 

 

Lance finds himself wondering what their picture would look like, if their shapes would be indistinguishable altogether.  A dully lit sky, scattered ferris wheel lights, and unrecognizable outlines.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for such a short chapter but I really, really enjoy this chapter short. It flows well, I think. Anyways, I'll make up for it by updating again tomorrow!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they see stars in the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: I'll post an update tomorrow!  
> me: doesn't post an update for a week.
> 
> oops.  
> In my defense, I tried very hard to edit this part because for some reason some parts weren't clicking for me and I couldn't bring myself to post anything I wasn't satisfied with. Also excuse any typos in this A/N because I am currently typing with one hand and a bagel in my other hand..... Anyways, have some self-indulgent writing <3

“Okay, last stop, I promise,” Lance tugs them away from the ride when they’re done, towards the largest tent he can see- he’d been purposely avoiding it, just to save it for last.  He’s aware that it’s nearing 8:30 and the next day is Monday and Shiro and Keith have better things to do- 

 

But this last thing is his favorite part.

 

It's the biggest tent in the fair, one that Lance had somehow managed to lead them away from the whole night. It's special anyways, because it's a mini planetarium. 

 

So maybe the tent canvas is scratched and somewhat dirty. So maybe it has some fraying edges and it doesn't stretch taut like it used to and its colors are faded. So maybe the tent poles are a bit bent like the permanent crookedness of an old man's hands, and maybe the tent has a slouch to it now and maybe, when they enter, there is the sound of faint whistling, a breeze passing through the number of small holes in the tent. 

 

So what. 

 

The familiar swirl of stars on the ceiling is like re-entering a favorite dream and there's music too, a familiar strand of flowing harp notes, piano measures in the darkness. Some strings of fairy lights line paths into the grass beneath their feet, so the three of them follow to an empty spot on one of the many picnic blankets strewn about. 

 

“Wow,” breathes Keith, and Lance almost doesn't catch it but yet he does. And he agrees. Because yes, this whole fair can be shabby in another's eyes and Lance had been somewhat self-conscious about coming here, but this projection of stars onto the ceiling merits appreciation.  Lance lies down on the blanket, easy, like slipping back into a routine, and pats the blanket next to him as an indication that the other two should take their places as well. He doesn't say anything though, just resigning himself to the darkness of the tent, its insides so cosmically different from the outside. 

 

Lance remembers so much about the planetarium, some specific and most vague impressions, but lasting ones. As Shiro and Keith shift into comfortable positions, Lance thinks back to when he was younger and he fell asleep at the end of the starry show (or rather the third one, because a certain 7-year-old Lance refused to leave the tent) and his father had had to carry him out in his arms. 

 

Those had been good nights, lit with hopes and wishes on falling stars. 

 

Crossing his arms behind his head, Lance's eyes unfocus on the display, even though he desperately wants to latch on and find the constellations he memorized as a kid. But, no, his vision fuzzes for a bit as he takes it  _ all _ in.  And he thinks. And he says, in his head,  _ Hey, Dad _ .  

 

_ Thanks for always bringing me to this stupid fair even when you had work early the next day.  _

 

_ Thanks for always letting me stay to the last show. _

 

_ Thanks for being around _ . 

 

It's the least Lance can do, looking up at these artificial stars- but his dad wouldn't care if they're not real stars in the city sky, because his dad had only ever cared about the sentiment and the meaning behind it all. 

 

One of the automated shooting stars begins its descent in the corner of Lance's vision, somewhere up and to the left corner of the tent ceiling. On impulse, Lance brings his fingertips to his lips- he doesn't reach out but imagines the wish dispersing on its own. 

 

It's enough. 

 

“This is pretty cool,” Shiro grins and it's not an interruption but a right end to Lance's musings. His father is at rest now and that's enough- and Lance is here, when the shadow falls deeper with the tent flap closing and the fairy lights flicking off. 

 

The music begins to fade as well and the stars above slow their rotation- or, rather, it feels like the ground slows its shifting. The brief moment of illusion, that they are moving and the stars are not, transitions smoothly to a stop when the woman’s voice sounds. 

 

“ _ In the beginning… there was nothing. _ ”  The sky goes completely dark, and Lance revels in the gasps he hears in the sudden pitch blackness of the tent. The woman’s voice is melodious, and familiar- as far as Lance knows, the same woman has been narrating the story of the universe to him since he was a child in this same tent. 

 

“ _ But then- _ ” She pauses, always unseen, voice echoing within the tent and through the endless void, where in the middle of the nothing, there is a small crackle of light.

 

-Then flicker of light explodes into fire across their heads, billowing fire and energy, a roar of deafening proportions all around them, bright and blinding. 

 

_ “...The birth of a universe _ . “

 

It’s the Big Bang.

 

Semi-consciously, Lance has been uttering the words himself, under his breath, instinctively. Wow, he probably has a problem. Like, maybe being overly attached to this fair. But it doesn’t matter anymore, not with the roiling inferno above them all, and the woman’s voice beginning the tale of the world that Lance knows almost word for word.

 

She talks about the stars- and they appear, one by one by one, returning to the sky above. And she describes their formation, as nebulae flow onto the never-ending canvas.  She tells the stories of the constellations, the zodiac and their myths as they each blaze bright in the space before their eyes. How, when ordered to by the queen of the gods herself, Hercules came to slaughter the Nemean Lion with his bare hands, and being one of Hera’s own creatures, the Lion was immortalized in the night sky. She shares the story of Orion and the Scorpion, destined forever to be 180 degrees apart as constellations, never to fight but forever in a never-ending chase across the heavens. And then the last story, a tale of the twin fish, forever inseparable, who led the goddess of beauty and her son, Eros, from the dangers of Typhon and were rewarded with their own place in the sky, never to be apart. 

 

In the last moments, the stars seem to brighten.  The glow breaks Lance from his strange trance and he looks over for the first time under the galactic stage and sees Keith’s form, eclipsing most of Shiro’s as they lay against each other. Shiro with his head propped up by an arm, looking down at Keith as he murmurs something- the light of the evanescent stars illuminating the flicker of eyelashes as his eyes drift shut- 

 

Lance looks away just in time for the telltale silence that follows, the stillness of Keith reaching up slightly to touch Shiro’s lips with his own, a moment of just them that Lance could never intrude on. Like a galaxy far, far away. Maybe it would make a beautiful photo, shadows of their kiss under the starry scene, except it feels like the kind of thing that should never be shared, but instead kept to oneself, kept safe. 

 

Just as quickly as it came, the moment flits away again when the sky above them lightens further, becoming the rosy hues and pinkish tones of early dawn- and in this light Lance can see the seams of the tent once more and the people around him. The illusion is lifted. 

 

The show is over and people exit the brightening tent while Lance sits up in a daze, feeling tired now, yet briefly content.  He climbs to his feet- and it’s like he’s forgotten how to speak because he just doesn’t. 

 

“That was so awesome, Lance,” Keith bumps his shoulder, “Totally beats the city sky, amirite Shiro?” 

 

“God, yes,” Shiro hums, “Almost hate living in the city- but don’t. Like, no one would take you seriously if you moved to the middle of nowhere for the stars, you know?”

“Plus, no wifi,” sighs Keith. 

 

And no money, Lance thinks. Heck, where would he live? Chasing the stars sounds like the kind of thing he would do- then he remembers he can’t. Here Lance is with his substitute stars and his light polluted atmosphere. 

 

The errant musing soon falls away though, once on their way out, and Shiro stifles a secret smile before he leaves them suddenly with a quick, “Gimme a sec,” called over his shoulder.  He disappears into a gift shop booth, or rather, he disappears behind stands of souvenirs on display, and only pops back to say, “Don’t come over, it’s a surprise-”

 

“Wonder what that could be?” Lance raises his eyebrows.

 

But, Keith just shakes his head and laughs, obviously content to stand there with his hands eased into Shiro’s jacket pockets and let Shiro have his fun. “Beats me.”

 

In no time at all, the broad-shouldered man is back, grinning happily with two packets in hand- he waves them, “Guess what I got?”

 

“Stop- moving them-” Keith mutters as he tries to hold Shiro’s arm down, until he finally stills so they can see what he’s holding.

...glow stars?

 

“Oh, God-” Keith says, but it’s a happy  _ Oh, God _ , half-infused with laughter, and Lance can’t help his own smile.

 

“Okay, this shit is amazing,” He admits, “I used to cover my entire ceiling with them.”

 

“Really?” Smiles don’t  _ really  _ glimmer, but Shiro’s seems to. “Because this pack’s for you.” He tosses one of the packets to Lance, who barely manages to catch it between his fingers. 

 

“Uh- No-” he tries to protest, his first reaction to deny it or even toss the bag of greenish stars back to Shiro, but the other man holds his hands up, simultaneously gesturing Lance to stop his feeble sputtering and making it so that he wouldn’t be able to catch the stars. “Come  _ on- _ ” Lance sounds so at loss for words- people just buying him stuff? That’s like, the most awkward thing he can come across- 

But Shiro waves it off. “Don’t worry, it’s like- what? Three bucks? I thought you’d like them.” 

 

“Do I get to decorate with ours?” asks Keith, almost innocently but for the grin that spreads across his face, a comet splitting the sky, when Shiro throws him a look of complete exasperation/downright refusal/absolute done-ness. 

 

Lance’s confusion only lasts a few second before Shiro turns over with an amazingly unamused look pasted on his face and explains. “The last time I bought these stars,  _ somebody- _ ” Keith snickers unapologetically in response to the jab, “-decided it’d be a great idea to make a  _ dick constellation _ .” 

 

“Oh, jeez-” Lance laughs, not surprised that Keith is a little shit to everyone, “So a glowing dick on the ceiling-”

 

“ _ -Also _ ,” continues Shiro, “I didn’t notice it until it was too late.”

 

“Too late?”

 

“That day was the first day my mom visited our apartment,” Shiro groans at the memory.  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry.” He makes as if he’s sending a prayer to the stars, perhaps in the memory of his lost dignity. 

 

By now, they’re back at Shiro’s car, Keith still snickering (“God, that was hilarious-”) and Shiro not Having It (“Do you even understand? It’s been three years and my mom still brings that up when we talk-”) and Lance comfortably settling into the backseat, stars in hand.  Then, he remembers to dig out his wallet to fish out payment- it’d been what? Three hours? But, before he manages to come to a conclusion of how much to pay, Keith notices it.

 

“1 hour,” He says, no room for argument. “Honestly, I’ll even take for half an hour, because we literally took one picture and it involved no posing whatsoever-”

 

But Lance, strangely enough, can’t bring himself to consider paying less than $30- He knows, rationally, what Keith says makes sense because it wasn’t difficult modeling, so he isn’t obligated to pay the full amount, but he can’t bring himself to underpay. It’s like he’s just watching himself reach into his wallet and pull out three twenties, since he has to double for Shiro.

 

“Dude.” Keith just stares at the bills offered to him. “You can math right?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Lance isn’t pissed per se, but he kinda wishes Keith weren’t making this even harder for him.

 

“I said $30?” 

“Uh-” Lance doesn’t know if he should laugh this off or feel slightly more affronted, until Shiro realizes what’s going on.

 

“Oh- no, just $30, because you don’t have to pay me,” Shiro nudges Keith lightly, “Don’t be  _ rude _ , you lil shit-”

 

“What do you mean I don’t have to pay you?” When will Lance ever  _ not  _ be caught off balance with them?  He’s about to offer an argument, any kind of argument to the dismay of his (probably) more rational wallet, but then Shiro’s backing up the car and Lance falls back into his seat at the movement. 

 

“I have a pretty good job,” shrugs Shiro easily, “Don’t really need to be paid for this, I’m glad to do it just to help. I mean, you’re not going to beg to pay me, are you?” 

“Uh-” Lance stutters for the better half of a second, “-No?”

“That’s what I thought-” the fucker turns around and  _ winks _ , “Anyways, Keith’s the one who needs the cash, since he’s a man of honor-”

 

Keith huffs. “Just because I don’t live off of you-” There’s no heat in the argument, obviously not anymore, and that becomes even more evident when Shiro (who really should be watching the road) looks over with the cheesiest smile to press Keith’s hand to his lips.

 

“I love when you get all strong and independent on me,” Shiro gives an overdramatic sigh, and Lance pushes a ten and a twenty into Keith’s hand before buckling his seatbelt.  He relaxes more into it now, uncomfortable moment gone in a fleeting heartbeat.

 

There are several moments of silence in the dark, lights glowing past in the night as Shiro exits the park, smudges on the windows flashing whenever they pass a streetlight. “So… what  _ do _ you do for a living?” 

 

“Oh, I’m a mechanic,” is the answer, and Lance can’t tell if he’s surprised or not. He’s… not. Well, he’s become accustomed to not assuming things about other people, let alone their careers. He can’t count the number of times people have had the most peculiar expression when he tells them that he’s an art major, and he’ll be honest. It unnerves him. “It’s a little unexpected, I know,” Shiro sounds sheepish, now, almost self-conscious, probably because of Lance’s silence.

 

“No- no, that’s cool,” Lance has to scramble to patch the hole in the conversation, “If I had a car, I’d let you check it out.”  

 

What. What was  _ that _ ? Inner Lance flings himself out the window in mortification.  Holy  _ shit _ , he’s just bad at talking to people in general- no, he’s gotten bad, he hadn’t been like this  _ before-  _ and Keith is snickering in earnest now. 

 

“Wooow,” Keith draws the word out, “ _ That _ , Lance, is what I call smooth as fuck.”  It’s a good thing it’s relatively dark besides the light of city night life, because Lance’s flush is probably covering his whole face and neck right now. 

 

“Well, I think it’s a sweet sentiment,” Shiro is the voice of reassurance here, “For the record, Lance, if you had a car, I’d definitely check it out for you. With a discount, even.” Silly as it is, and Lance stifles a laugh, it makes him feel better. “Anyways, if you don’t think that’s cool enough, before I became a mechanic I wanted to become an astronaut.”

 

It’s cool- wicked cool. Of  _ course _ , Lance can’t help thinking,  _ of course, _ on top of being a perfect person all around, Shiro  _ had  _ to have almost been an astronaut. God,  _ Lance  _ had wanted to become an astronaut, once.“But why didn’t you?” He can’t help the confusion. Obviously Shiro’s a smart guy, a more-than-capable one, with an obvious love for the final frontier- it’s cool that he’d almost had the chance to go to space but  _ why didn’t he _ ?

 

“Oh, it is what it is,” Shiro’s holds a trace of wistfulness as he lifts his prosthetic arm so it glints fluidly from the streetlamps- the moonlight-  “Things happen, you know?”

 

Swallowing the wrong words, impulsive “I’m sorry”s and “That sucks”, Lance simply opts for simple agreement. “Yeah- yeah, I know.”

 

“It's okay, you still have your head in the clouds most of the time anyways,” Keith prods Shiro's shoulder, “Isn't that right, airhead?”

 

“Boy, do I know it.” 

 

By the time they pull up to Lance’s apartment, Lance feels a deep coil of content low in his gut, or maybe just tiredness- just sitting in the backseat, eyes adjusted to the dark, he almost can’t bring himself to move. As if they feel the same, neither Shiro nor Keith really have any urgency when Shiro slowly shuts off the engine. 

 

The air isn’t expectant either, not like they’re waiting for Lance to get off the car by himself. No, it’s more like an extensive breath as they all sit there, silent for a few seconds, all lost in separate thoughts.

 

“Hey,” Lance finds that Shiro's voice is incapable of being an interruption, no, the silence bows and retreats for his words, never fighting or clashing. “Thanks for a nice night out- that was fun. I think we all had a great time.”  Trust Shiro to be sincere and thankful when all Lance had done was drag them along to a weird kiddy fair.  But Lance digresses.

 

“I swear, that was probably the lowest-stress posing I’ve ever done,” Keith chimes in teasingly, “Keep this up and you’ll basically be spoiling us.” 

 

Lance makes a noncommittal noise, “Well, I wouldn’t bet on that then. You have no idea what’s in store.” To be honest, not even Lance knows what’s in store, but that’s besides the point.

 

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Keith’s face isn’t fully visible to Lance, but that smirk is in mind’s eye. 

 

“Okay,” Lance relents with a smile, “I’ll text you details about the next plan, promise. Goodnight, guys.” He starts to get out of the car, but doesn’t expect Keith to get out at as well. “Walking me to the door? Really?”

 

“Shhh, just making sure you get home safe.” Keith has to be joking, and his grin says he is. Lance’s apartment entrance is literally ten feet away from the curb, but he lets Keith walk him there anyways. “Anyways, yeah, thanks for taking us to a dweeby space fair.” The words have no bite at all, just a genuine thanks, and maybe Lance can get the hang of reading Keith after all. 

 

But then Lance blurts something like, “You’re welcome” or “No problem”  before Keith says goodnight and when Lance turns from the closed door, the unfathomable weight of Keith’s eyes lingering in his mind is just as unrevealing as before. 

 

Yet the greenish glow of the stars in Lance’s hand is familiar, nothing mysterious or unknowable about them at all, and he knows just where to stick them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love all of you, I'm so sorry but my writing pace has slowed considerably since exams have taken over my life :( comments and kudos are the way to my heart haha <3  
> A shance oneshot ;) : http://archiveofourown.org/works/10776687


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there might be a coffee shop involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad News: I haven't updated in almost 2 weeks  
> Good News: Exams are over for me, and the semester is over in two days which means?? MORE TIME TO WRITE! Special thanks to everyone who wished me luck for my exams!! <3
> 
> On that note, here is an /almost/ 2k chapter.

 

Lance is a starving man, but he admits, there are days where the ache isn’t so bad. It’s not always a constant, nagging thing because it ebbs here and there and Lance has genuinely good days and and it’s one of those days the next day when Keith drops by Al-Tea and Coffee and strolls up to the counter all casual-like, hands deep in his pockets.

“Can I get a… large Milky Way Frap?” He’s smirking, of course, “Or… wait do you not sell those here?”

“Oh ha ha,” Lance indulges him with superficial laughter before rolling his eyes. “Very funny, Keith, but-” he’s about to say something witty, or snarky, when there’s a pinch at his elbow,” _-ow-_ uh, how can I help you today?” He squeaks the last part involuntarily because it’s undoubtedly Allura at his back and he can suddenly feel her stern gaze because _customer service_ , Lance.

 

Keith makes his order with a knowing grin and Lance only breaks his ‘Do it for the customers” smile once, to stick his tongue out- but only for a flash because Allura is right behind him, probably smiling dangerously.

 

After Keith gets his cup, Allura finally lets Lance’s service skills off the hook by reaching over the counter to shake hands with Keith. “So you’re Lance’s mystery man,” she laughs, “I’m Allura, his coworker and friend.”

 

Lance can’t help his peevish sigh, “Hello, he is _not_ my mystery man-”

 

They ignore him, of course.

 

“Keith,” Keith introduces himself with just his name and what looks to be a firm handshake, “I’m a friend- can’t help the mysterious part.”

 

“Any friend of Lance’s is a friend of mine,” Allura nods, and Lance would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous of Allura’s ability to charm her way through every situation. Allura’s just a naturally charming person, he supposes.

 

“What brings you here, anyways?” Lance leans against the counter, “Craving my company?”

 

“Uh, _no_ ,” Keith snorts, “Sometimes a guy just wants a cup of coffee, jeez.”  But maybe he says it with a smile. Maybe he says it with a smile that Lance takes to heart because he’s joking and Lance can _tell_.  It shouldn’t make him feel as satisfied as it does.

 

“Whatever you say,” says Lance with raised eyebrows, “I know the truth.”

 

Keith hums and raises his cup to his upturned lips, “Yes, I’m sure you do.”  He shrugs under his backpack then, “Anyways, _besides_ missing your presence, I came because I figured I could be productive for once, so I’m just gonna-” he motions backwards toward an open table, “be over there.”

 

Saluting Keith, and probably delaying the line to the annoyance of the next person up, Lance just says, “Call if you need me?”

 

“Gotcha.” WIth that, Keith seats himself down and pulls out a laptop- and then the woman tapping her fingers on the counter clears her throat.  Haha, oops.  Lance offers her a sheepish smile and a half-shrug.

 

It does feel strange to feel Keith’s presence there, just barely.  Maybe if Keith were brooding, Lance would consider describing him as a shadow in the room or something, with an aura that could render a crowd helpless. But no, Keith doesn’t brood as much as he occasionally scowls at his screen and chews on the end of his pen cap-

 

Wait. Why does he even have a pen? He’s _typing_.

 

Okay, so maybe Lance is a little bit distracted. A lot distracted.

 

It’s just weird to have someone Lance knows in the shop (besides the obvious choice of Allura and other coworkers)- or someone Lance calls a friend. Yeah, Lance has friends- he has classmates and people he’s cool with, he’s got peers and he has people he nods to amicably if he passes by or sees them in the library, and he has people whose numbers he might have had once but never uses.

 

He doesn’t really have people who come to the shop and sit in a corner and do their thing and look up at the most inopportune times, aka when Lance is looking at right at them, so it’s too obvious that Lance is paying too much attention-

 

 _Ah, shit_ , Lance thinks as he looks away for what has got to be the fifth time in the last half hour. He just can’t help it- what is Keith even doing here? Maybe he’s just trying to make Lance uncomfortable. Okay, no, that really can’t be it, not when Keith is minding his own business, earbuds in and fingers typing deliberately.

 

Suddenly, Lance remembers when he’d met Keith, just days ago, really, and he’d drawn the way Keith sat- and he wants to draw him again, maybe. It just seems the casual not-quite-slouch should be put into lines somehow.

 

Right on cue, Keith glances up from his screen again, just in time to catch Lance’s eyes and does a little half-wave from across the shop- and Lance slaps his hand to his forehead. Goddamnit, he’d done it again.

 

When Lance finally finds the will to peek between his fingers, Keith’s gaze is gone and instead, he’s smiling slightly at his laptop. A little too smugly for Lance’s liking. Resolutely, Lance decides he’s not going to even look in Keith’s general direction for the rest of his shift. Nope.  Even to check if he’s still there- Lance won’t look.

 

Lance fails, of course, but by the time Keith walks up to the counter two hours later, he’s less jumpy and hasn’t been checking every five minutes to see if Keith’s left yet.

“So,” Keith shoulders his backpack so naturally it’s weird, “Have you never seen a writer in their element or something?”

 

“Uh, have you- never- uh-” Lance can feel his nose scrunching as he gives up on the comeback. “Yeah, I got nuthin’.”

 

“Writers? Coffee shops?” prompts Keith, “Nothing? Those two don’t seem like they go together?”

 

“No, it’s not that,” Lance can’t begin to explain why he seemed so distracted by Keith’s presence, “Ugh… it’s nothing. Ignore me. You on your way out?”

 

Keith tosses his empty coffee cup in the trash can, “Yeah, just about.”

 

“Nice. My shift’s over in….” Lance looks at his watch, “Two minutes, actually.”

 

“Oh, I can wait, no problem,” Keith offers. In no time, Lance is back from telling Allura he’s clocking out, grabbing his drawstring bag with his sketchbook and phone before he leaves his place behind the counter, minus the apron.

 

“Let me show you the way out,” he can’t help but say cheekily, reflecting how Keith had walked him two steps to his own home the night before, “So you don’t get lost.”

 

Keith only ducks his head in a dignified when Lance graciously pushes the door open for him. “Why, thank you.”

 

“No problem-o.”

 

And suddenly, they’re outside of Al-tea and Coffee, and Lance remembers which way he’s supposed to be going (south, to the other side of campus where he’ll walk to catch the metro) and Keith says something about headed to the parking lot, which is _not_ south, so Lance does the weird thing where he waves goodbye and walks away but doesn’t turn away because he’s not exactly sure how much time is supposed to pass before turning away doesn’t seem dismissive anymore.

 

Good thing Keith turns away first or else Lance would probably have knocked into someone or tripped over his own untied shoelaces.

 

He should probably tie them before he does something stupid.

 

*

 

 **Lance:** hey

 **Keith:** oh hey there

Whats up

 

 **Lance:** planning the next photos… need some help? Advice?

 

 **Keith:** shoot

by that i mean, go for it

dont like. actually shoot

 

 **Lance:** >.>

okay

ok

so maybe this is a little weird

 

 **Keith:** ...hey remember the last time u said that and got me and shiro all worked up for nothing because it wasnt as weird as u said it would be

 

 **Lance:** >.>

fine

alright so. Any special domestic shit you and shiro do? Regularly?

 

 **Keith:** like… what kinda domestic shit. like doing the laundry? Reading newspapers in bed?

scrubbing bathroom tiles?

 

 **Lance:** uhhhhhh,,, kinda

maybe

do you guys.. . actually enjoy doing those things together

 

 **Keith:** cooking?

oh OH i know

good morning handjobs

 

 **Lance:** …….

……

bye,

 **Keith:** LANCE  LANCE IM KIDDING COME BACK

IM

KIND OF KIDDING

OKAY THAT WAS OUT OF LINE

LANCE

 

 **Lance:** ive gotten all i needed thanks

 

 **Keith:** LAN C E

Read

9:32 PM

  


**Keith:** :(

Read

10:40 PM

 

*

 

Lance isn’t really mad.

 

*

 

 **Lance:** im not really mad

sorry i was working on something so i left you on read

 

 **Keith:** >:(

 

 **Lance:** ;)

you know what they say about when inspiration knocks…

 

 **Keith:** Uh

Pretty sure its “when opportunity knocks”... not inspiration

 

 **Lance:** technicalities, technicalities.

anyways back to the point

im planning a pair of photos, but domestic stuff

is your apartment an ok setting?

Also does shiro cook often?

 

Keith: our apartment sounds a-ok but maybe im just biased

oh yeah shiro cooks

?

 

Lance: haha i figured lmao

 

Keith: uh how

 

Lance: come on he probably wears an apron right?

Like a really cheesy one?

uh bet his mom taught him how to cook

Keith: …. uh hoW

did you

? ??

 

Lance: I’m just smart ;)  

anyways, i’m thinking about some photos of that- do u ever hang around when

hes cooking or

also do you go to bed at the same time

like?

im thinking shots of the restroom

oh no this sounds bad im going to stop talking now

 

Keith: NO LANCE

It’s not THAt bad

kinda but not rlly

our restroom is. tiny

also messy and ok sometimes i watch shiro cook

is that ok

Lance

yo

dont leave me hanging

oh mygod lance

 

*

 

Okay, so Lance isn’t the best at replying and stuff when he’s preoccupied. At least this time he didn’t leave Keith on read, he thinks, as he responds to Keith’s little side-eyed emojis.

 

The watercolors on his paper are still drying, some patches darker purple and shining with moisture, swirling into streaks of magenta.  It’s not really a secret that Lance loves cool colors- blues, purples- and yet the warmer, darker reds blend so nicely into the small galaxy Lance has painted.

  


Yeah, he usually watercolors galaxies with purples and blues and even greens, but this time, it’s a little more of a fiery of a galaxy, a little more of a blaze than a glow.  And it felt great to just sit here for a bit and put his concept on paper, just for himself and not for anyone else. Not for a grade, not for money.  Strands of deep purple, crimson hair fly on the creamy page taped down to his table, one of the dark eyes with thick lashes looks out from behind some errant waves of hair.

 

Lance has dabbled in many styles, and this is probably more reminiscent of a more “anime” style, as some would call it; either way, he likes the dark, simple lines, like someone had cut out the lines of the face and hair from the paper and held the stencil up against a billowing nebula. He enjoys the stylistically large eyes, slanted slightly at the ends, which remind him almost of a cat, and the bolder lines that define the shadow cast by the jaw.

 

Later, he’ll get his handy-dandy white acrylic paint and get little splatters of it everywhere, like usual, as he creates the stars so they stand stark against the galaxy that makes up the face.  He’ll probably also try to ignore the slight familiarity of said face.

 

And probably fail. But, anyways.

 

There's nothing wrong with drawing people, or people who look like people that Lance knows. He does it all the time. 

 

It's not, like, _special_ or anything. 

*

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really, really enjoyed this chapter. ? Lance's ideas sound so weird :((( He just wants domestic shit c'mon, cut him some slack. Also, I'm boutta tag this as a coffee shop au because wow they spend more time in the coffee shop than I'd given them credit for.  
> also I almost didn't post this as a chapter by itself- but then I realized yall deserve something nice and an update to reassure you that I'm not dead... <3  
> Kudos and comments make my days worth it!!  
> also go hmu on twitter ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say I was going to upload more???? I obviously lied aksjdfkajsdhfkajdsfkajdshf oasdkjfhaksjdf IM SORRY here's 3k of a chapter aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I'm uploading asap so I won't say much, kudos, comments, come shame me for not updating  
> (for dev and letta u two are special to me)

Their bathroom tiles are red and white. Funnily enough, the first thing they remind Lance of is a diner, something like Johnny Rockets, or the inside of an In-n-Out (which Lance had been to _once_ , when visiting his cousins in Cali).  

 

It’s a strange impression for sure, especially in regards to the place where Keith and Shiro shower and wash their faces in the morning, but Lance isn’t here to go down _that_ particular road.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Shiro had said jokingly as he opened the door for Lance. It was Friday evening, and Lance had his Powershot with him and upgrade: a tripod.

“Oooh, so what’s this fancy doohicky?” Keith had said when Lance hoisted the tripod into what he assumed was a living room of sorts- and Lance had paused. Just to look at Keith.  Finally, Keith had rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m kidding.”

 

Lance had breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh good, I thought you had to be- did you just want the excuse to say ‘doohicky’ or something?”

 

“Uh.. maybe.”

Anyways, they’d graciously given Lance an impromptu tour of their shared flat, the living room, one bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom- and then Lance had realized he needed to use the restroom and here he was, feet bare against cold, red-and-white checkered tiles on the bathroom floor.

 

It dawns on him then that he’s in Keith and Shiro’s home. This is where they live together, Shiro with his job and Keith at NYCC, and they have a bedroom and this is their bathroom.  Lance wonders if Keith gets up when Shiro does, or if he merely opens his eyes to smile when Shiro scoots out of bed, or maybe Keith has morning classes so he’s the one who wakes up first and has to prod Shiro out of bed with coffee in hand. Did they tend to sit on the couch in the living room after a long day? Did Shiro or Keith come home first?

 

Of course, _then_ Lance remembers that this was the side of them that he’d been wanting to capture all along- something private but still understandable and relatable on a broad level. The concept of home.

 

Yeah, he feels a little displaced- but well. Who wouldn’t? This isn’t Lance’s domain. He smiles queasily at himself in the mirror above the sink- and laughs a little. Okay, it’s not that bad.  He’s just here to do his assignment, with a clear goal in mind.

 

Well, two goals.

 

The first goal involves the kitchen. Lance had grown up in a big family, loud, and the kitchen had been central to them- so maybe Lance is using that impression here, but Keith had also inspired him by mentioning the fact that he sometimes watched Shiro cook.

 

“I’m not that great of a cook-”

 

“Bullshit,” shushes Keith, busy with tieing the back of Shiro’s apron- which is bright pink and has something in japanese on it, accompanied by a cute cartoon cat. Shiro had said the apron was originally a gag gift of sorts but then he’d decided “fuck it, there’s nothing wrong with wearing an apron” and his mother had insisted and well…

 

It’s almost dinnertime anyways and luckily none of them have eaten- and Keith had been the one to demand that Lance eat with them because it was the least they could do.  In the meantime, Lance sets up the tripod behind the kitchen counter, beside the little round dining table. From where he positions the camera, he has a level view of the counter, a nice flat line perpendicular to the wall and Shiro and Keith’s figures standing in front of the stove.

He takes a couple test shots just like that, Keith still fiddling with the apron at Shiro’s back, Shiro inspecting the handle of a pan with concentration that’s almost comical.  

 

Adjusting the tripod just a little, just to make sure picture really runs perfectly parallel to the counter, Lance steps back. “So, what’s on the menu, chef?”

 

“Well,” Shiro sighs, “Originally, I was thinking maybe noodles- you’d think ramen, but I figured maybe some udon-”

Keith cuts in with a sheepish laugh. “Except… what Shiro didn’t know is that I used the udon the other day while I had the case of the…”

 

“Midnight munchies,” grumbles Shiro. “Anyways, how do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

 

“Seriously?” Lance laughs out loud. “Like? Pancakes?”

 

“We’ve got the ingredients lying around, I’m pretty sure,” laughs Shiro, “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

 

Lance can't complain the very least so that's how they end up making pancakes and frying bacon on a Friday night.

 

Taking the photos isn't hard at all, in fact, it's all too easy. The glow of the hanging kitchen lights over the counter and the bright pink of Shiro's apron- the tiny hint of blue from the stove’s flames, and the red of Keith's shirt. It all… fits so well.

 

And for all the straight lines of the photo, the counter and the wall and the stove and the bag of flour perpendicular, Lance gets the feeling that if he painted them with, say, an impressionist kind of style, the feeling that came through would be the same.  Or maybe more abstract, with blobs of color in the right places- that could work too. And it doesn't matter if no one looking from outside in could tell what Lance's painting is supposed to be or feel like, really, because some things… some things, Lance likes to create just for himself.

 

When Lance's done with taking the pictures, because honestly it's not like he can just take pictures for half an hour straight while Keith and Shiro make pancakes and crack eggs, he helps them, of course. There's pancakes to be flipped, slices of bacon to be watched over.

 

It's actually a miracle how they all manage to circle around between the countertop and the stove without resulting in injury- by limb or frying pan. (They come close several times but Lance is quick on his feet, enough to scoot and back up against the counter, for example when Keith honest-to-God pours bacon grease into the sink. Yeah. Great visual there, Lance. But at least no one gets burned.)

 

“Wait- _wait-_ ” Lance stills with the container of baking soda in hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong but… pancakes use baking _powder-_ ”

 

“It’ll be fine,” Keith waves it off a bit too breezily for Lance’s taste- and yes he knows the too bitter, almost soapy taste of using too much baking soda- but Keith continues, “We’ve done this before. The ratio is about one fourth a teaspoon of baking soda for every teaspoon of baking powder, so yeah.”

 

So, forgive Lance if he’s still a bit suspicious. “It’ll work? No funky aftertaste?”

 

“No funky aftertaste.” How Shiro manages to salute with a spatula in hand and still look perfectly serious, Lance will never know, but some mysteries are never meant to be solved. “Scout’s honor.”

 

Snorting, Keith simultaneously rolls his eyes and flips a pancake. “Scout’s honor my ass.”

 

“Well, I’m trusting you guys here.” Yeah, Lance is still dubious about this. Baking soda and baking powder aren’t the same thing. They’re just not.

 

It turns out, they kind of know what they’re talking about because by the time the pancakes are piled up idyllically and the eggs are sunny and sided and the bacon is just done sizzling, Lance sneaks a piece of pancake to taste and it tastes fine.

 

He doesn’t miss the tiny sigh of relief Shiro gives at the his own first bite though.  “You weren’t really sure.” Lance narrows his eyes.  Of course, Shiro doesn’t even begin to deny the accusation, only giving a sheepish grin.

 

“No harm, no foul,” Keith has a rakish grin even over pancakes and syrup, but Lance can’t argue anymore, so that’s that.

 

The chatter between bites is comfortably slow, warm- like the sticky, gradual, drizzle of syrup and pancakes- and yeah, trust Lance to make small talk and maple syrup sound like something poetic.  At least Aunt Jemima would approve.

 

After they’re done, Lance insists on helping with the dishes.

 

“I insist on helping with the dishes.” He manages to stack four plates and utensils and head to the sink before Keith and Shiro can protest- _and_ without breaking anything.  And for their part, no one actually protests or puts on the facade of protesting, which Lance takes well in stride because he always found the “oh no it’s fine, please don’t, oh no it’s not necessary” thing to be tedious as fuck anyways.

 

“Well then, I insist on drying the dishes if you’re ok with washing,” Shiro says agreeably- and rolls up his sleeves up his forearms and past his elbows- which is actually _absurd_ and _totally unnecessary_ and _Wow_ Lance needs to redirect his attention and thoughts. Also Shiro is probably illegal in 29 states.

 

Annnnnd yep, Lance is dumping his hands into scalding water now, like right now.

 

*

 

“This is weird,” Keith laughs teetering a little bit, but not really- just trying to block Shiro’s view of the bathroom mirror playfully.

 

“You said it wasn’t,” Lance can’t help the petulant tone just a bit, even as he adjusts his tripod again and checks the shot again- another test shot-

 

“Well, I changed my mind-”

 

Shiro tries to say something but unfortunately keeps his toothbrush in his mouth, effectively blocking coherent speech. It seems almost a wonder how he can fit in the bathroom with Keith at the same time- he’d stood by the doorframe when Lance had explained what he had in mind, and Lance had once again had to come to terms with how tall and … large he was-

 

But Lance digresses and thanks God that Keith isn’t smushed uncomfortably against the sink he’s leaning on right now, feigning incredible interest in the mirror.  “ _God_ , Shiro, when was the last time you wiped the mirror?”

 

“Uhhh…” Shiro smiles past the toothbrush.

 

“Ah, it’s fine,” Relenting, Keith takes the time to put toothpaste on his own toothbrush, “I never look that carefully anyways.” Shiro gives his muffled agreement with a nod.

 

From Lance’s end, where he’s in the hallway, things are looking pretty… good actually.

 

Remember how he said he had two goals? Well, this was the second one.

 

Lance is set up so he’s far enough that the doorframe and surrounding hall are included in the picture, but photo is looking from an angle into the bathroom. The hallway light is off so the hue in the hall is cooler, almost blue, but the light from the bathroom is bright and the red and white tiles are definitely striking.

It has to be something about the lines and contrast with Shiro-and-Keith that makes everything so appealing to Lance. It _has_ to be- the lines of the hallways and the doorway, the tiles inside the bathroom, the mirror- and then Shiro and Keith; Keith is directly in front of the mirror and sink with Shiro right behind him, height difference allowing Shiro to have an adequate view of the mirror over the top of Keith’s head.

 

“So, Lance, do I really just…” Keith mimed brushing his teeth questioningly.

 

Lance couldn’t help but maybe accidently snap a picture of that.

Shiro finally pulled his toothbrush out of his mouth. “Okay, but make it sorta fast so we don’t keep the water running for too long.”

 

“Right, gotcha,” Lance leaned down to the camera level, “Okay, now someone say something funny so you two can laugh idyllically and I can take a shot worthy of a Bed Bath & Beyond advertisement.”

Both looked at him, eyebrows raised comically.

 

“I’m not kidding, don’t leave it to me please, someone say something.”

 

Keith’s eyebrows rose higher against all odds, probably as if he was having a hard time believing that Lance wasn’t going to be that someone.

 

“Please, you _don’t_ want to hear me break out my lame jokes.”

 

A scoff now, that Lance saw rather than heard, like Keith knew full well what those lame jokes were like already. (He kinda did.)

So, finally Shiro took the chance to lean forward to whisper into Keith’s ear, nevermind the minty white foam at his lips, and that did the trick.

 

“ _Takashi-_ ” toothpaste foam from Keith got kind of everywhere a he gripped the sink. Something about Shiro’s smile told Lance that he would probably never find out what he said, but Keith’s sputtering laugh was worth it.

 

Maybe photography wasn’t Lance’s forte but this was nice. When he called it a night, only five minutes later, Keith spat gratefully into the sink.  “I don’t think the inside of my mouth will ever be the same,” he said ruefully, “This stuff is downright caustic.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll live.” He didn’t mean to sound brisk but then again, he wasn’t really paying that much attention. The tripod telescoped and the camera returned to its bag.

 

“No, wait,” Keith stopped him playfully, “Can we see the pictures?”

 

“Oh.” Lance blinked. “I mean, yeah, sure, I guess if you want to.”

 

“What, are you in a hurry to leave or something?” Shiro emerged from the bathroom with a washcloth still in his hands, hair slightly damp from where he’d obviously run his hands through it. “Wait, is it really that late?”

 

“No, not even nine,” Lance admits, “I can stay.”

 

“Couch,” Keith ushers them over to the living room and drops onto the couch, which, Lance eyes it speculatively, looks a hair too small. But Keith pats the spot next to him, so who is he to say no?

 

Lance feels a bit odd maybe, having the camera on in his lap, on display, but the skin-crawling of invasiveness isn’t present. It’s not too bad because the pictures were taken to be shown, nothing like someone peering over his shoulder into his sketchbook. Actually, Lance shudders at that thought- no thanks. No, this is much better than that.

 

Shiro follows close behind but chooses to sit on the couch’s arm rather than wedge himself in the remaining space between the cushions- and Lance feels relief for the briefest moment, a release in the tension in his ribcage he hadn’t known he’d harbored.

“So, uh, here are the ones from just now,” Lance flicks through the pictures rapidly since the last few hadn’t been his favorite but Keith laughs.

 

“Hey, slow down there, I know those aren’t the best ones but I still wanna see.” Almost reflexively, Lance flushes when he realizes he’s being self-conscious, then hands the camera over to Keith so he can go at his own pace.

 

Unforeseen consequences arise from that, mainly just Shiro having to tower over Lance to see the camera in Keith’s lap.

 

“Oh my God, do I really look like that when I brush my teeth,” Keith coughs out a laugh.

“Well, I’d say rule of thumb, you usually try to keep the toothpaste _in_ your mouth-” Shiro gets cut off by his own laugh and Keith shoving him lightly- and Lance has to duck under their exchange because he likes his head intact, thanks. But the deeper sound of Shiro’s laugh in his chest, too close to Lance’s ear, is pleasant. And there’s heat too, like it’s radiating off of him.

 

Lance finds himself scooting away a bit only to jostle Keith the slightest and when he looks up, Keith’s smiling at him and not the pictures.

 

It’s disconcerting.

 

“Stop that,” Lance says without thinking and without ire.

 

“Stop what?”

 

The words don’t come until he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

 

“Okay then.” Keith continues going through the photos before Shiro snorts a laugh.

“Go back, go back-” he urges Keith, “That one, that one right there.”

 

“Oh noooo-” It's obvious when Keith notices what Shiro was trying to point out, a single picture that's slightly blurred but with a clearly defined… glob of toothpaste foam suspended in midair.

 

“I _told_ you the toothpaste belongs in your mouth,” Shiro shakes his head, laughing all the while even as Keith groans in embarrassment.

 

Lance couldn't miss the chance to comment - of course he couldn't. “Wow. _Nice_. I'm impressed you didn't choke, you were laughing so hard.”

 

“This is what you wanted, isn't it? Idyllic laughing?”

 

“Well…. I didn't exactly have _this_ in mind,” Lance squints at the blurry picture, “But you know… I think I can work with it.”

 

“Oh yes, please do,” Shiro is fucking chortling and claps a heavy hand on Lance's shoulder, “I'm begging you to use it-”

 

“ _Don't_ -” Keith groans again warningly, “I _swear_ to God-”

 

“It has nice composition, I guess, and the blurriness of your moving contrasts with the surrounding area so-”

 

“ _Lance_ -” It's more like a warning growl at this point and Lance's ribcage tightens again- then Keith says something along the lines of “This is it, I'm deleting this right now-” And then the mad scramble begins.

 

All Lance knows is that the picture isn't getting deleted and somehow he's got his hands on the camera- he's plunging forward, trying to wrest it out of Keith's hands and Keith is laughing breathlessly, swearing something fierce.

 

And Shiro wheezes all the way through, with feeble words.  “Get it, Lance- don’t let him-”

 

Lance manages to hook his wrist through the camera's strap and with a triumphant yell, attempts to crawl forward further to get both hands on the camera- Keith twists under Lance, because now Lance is all but sprawled in his lap- very obviously trying his best to raise the camera over his head- it's absolute chaos, Shiro's hand appears in the fray, also making a grab for the poor device-

 

Then multiple things happen at once: Lance gets a surge of fear for the camera's safety, Keith abruptly lets go of the said camera, and Shiro somehow manages to fall off the couch entirely.

 

The resounding crash is followed only be brief silence and loud breathing.  Lance is clutching the Powershot to his chest, Keith is peering over at his feet where Shiro is lying.

 

“You okay there?”

 

A thumbs-up into the air. “A-okay.”

 

“Alright then, Lance-”

 

“Hmm?” he's still trying to catch his breath, actually.

 

“Your elbow is digging into my thigh, sorry-”

 

Oh- _oh._ Hastily, Lance backtracks way back out of Keith's personal space, faster than if he were exiting, pursued by a bear. (He and Hunk had been drama kids, back in the day.) “Sorry.”

 

“It's fine,” Keith leans over the side to pull Shiro up. “How'd you even fall, you big dummy?”

 

“Got a little ahead of myself…”

 

Their banter is lost on Lance as he checks the camera- it's fine. Whew. Jesus Christ, that could have ended badly.

 

“Do you want to see anymore?” Lance asks, almost wanting, expecting them to say no, but Keith just makes slight grabby hands for the camera and Lance hands it over.  “No wrestling for it,” he can't help but warn.

 

“Promise. I won't delete the picture if you promise not to use it. Deal?”

 

“Deal.”

 

They shook, a nice, warm handshake.

 

Lance shook his head to clear it. This was all kind of terrible if he thought about it.

 

It was terrible because Keith and Shiro _didn't_ make him uncomfortable when they looked at his photos. No, the worst part was, they made him feel good about it all.

 

“I like this one,” Keith murmured, stopping at one of the first pictures, a dark night sky with the rungs of a ferris wheel intersecting it. “It looks so peaceful.”

 

“Thanks,” muttered Lance, rubbing the back of his neck. So he was a little uncomfortable, then, but it was a different kind of uncomfortable. “That seemed so long ago, doesn't it?”

 

They nodded their agreements and then they reached the end of the camera roll and Lance felt some of his muscles go lax, a loosening in his throat.

 

“Not gonna lie, you're a great photographer, Lance.” The way Keith says it is much too strikingly sincere for Lance to look him in the eye.  “I mean, we as models are great, don’t get me wrong, but you…” he trailed off in a way that gave Lance the distinct impression he had more to say, not less.

 

“Ah, I just started, I'm a newbie, really-”

 

“Then you have an excellent eye,” insists Shiro. Lance has to look up to see his smile. “Just take the compliment already.”

 

So Lance does. He takes the compliment knowing there’s red on his cheeks; he takes it in and feels it bubble down his throat as he swallows it down, too-hard, too-fast.

 

When they show him out after he manages to pay Keith and say goodnight and Keith calls out that he'll keep in touch through texting, Lance feels the warmth all the while.

 

It's a cool night, brisk and uncaring, but Lance bikes home feeling some coals glow in his chest. He wants to draw something warm, he thinks, a door that invites you in, a dining table you feel close around, or a couch you can wrestle on… something like a home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes I know I suck at chapter summaries so sue me)  
> (Don't sue me, I'm poor)  
> (twitter @ is now @celestialchels_ <3)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance sees something he can't exactly forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another update!! Enjoy!! Every time someone tells me they're excited to see more, I get excited to write more!!! Thank you all for reading, I appreciate every one of you!!! Kudos.... comments..... my life is yours.....

The first thing that Lance is aware of is the pulsing lights. Actually, it’s all that he’s aware of, a steady succession of flashing, bright colors before his eyes, the steady bass beating straight through his heart, drumming floor.

 

It’s barely music, but once Lance considers that maybe the deep bass is part of some bigger symphony, it becomes suddenly obvious that it _is_ music, music deep and all around and compelling everyone to move with it.

 

Everyone? Everyone. Bodies, shapes, presences, near Lance, right up against Lance, moving- everyone is moving and Lance is too, the beat of the electronic heart driving them to sway and turn with wild abandon- and Lance realizes that yes, this is abandon, his heart is light with the reverberations of the inexplicable music, shone through with the multitude of strobe lights-

There’s the heavy scent of people, cologne, perfume, body spray, and the basis of it all: sweat, and it doesn’t choke Lance this time.  Instead, he feels like he’s a part of it, the vast majority, and it’s a mindless meld of him and the rest of them into _us-_ it’s a foreign feeling, drawing Lance in, and it would almost be scary if everything weren’t so foggy- the good kind of foggy like a fog machine on stage-

There’s a stage, then, and the music rushes into clarity. The number of people swells until every corner of Lance’s body is intersecting with someone else’s, but he doesn’t even care. It’s just smoke and mirrors now, music, a voice in distance- low and hushed, the singing of a guitar-

 

Lance opens his mouth, to sing? A name on his tongue? He sees a figure on stage, beautiful and sinuous and not wholly unidentifiable, yet when he tries to distinguish a face, it evades him, nothing but smoke through his fingertips.

 

Then fingertips, yes, at his neck, trailing down his back, his side, a hand at his waist as the rising and falling melody pulses through Lance, and he turns to see whose familiar body is by his side.  Frankly, it's been far too long since Lance has had anyone else's hands on his body, anyone else's lips on his- he turns for an eternity, purple-blue-green-yellow-red lights at his peripheral vision, and he sees the angle of a face-

 

Another set of hands settle heavy and warm on his hips, and Lance turns again, feeling a smile curl at his mouth without even thinking about it-

 

Lance opens his eyes.

 

Within seconds, he realizes what opening his eyes means- and that leaves him feeling a bit betrayed by his own body, his own mind, and a bit bereft. There is no body by his side. That side of his mattress is still cool to the touch, and the lone sheets are tangled about in Lance's legs.

 

The truth is, it’s just another Monday morning, grayscale dawn light mutely illuminating his room, and all Lance can think about is the phantom pressure on his skin. Callouses pressing into the nape of his neck, fingerprints gently etching themselves-

 

He throws off his sheets, feeling something unsettling, hot like anger, quicksilver like envy -but neither at the same time- rush up his spine. He hates seeing faces in his dreams. Sometimes, and Lance is hopeful as he plunges himself into a cold shower, the dreams fade out through the day until they're nothing more than fleeting impressions.

 

The water drips into his eyes, through his hair, down his back where he can still feel hands- and Lance bitterly suspects maybe that won't be the case this time.

 

*

 

The nonexistent thrum of music and the weight of hands lingers on Lance for the rest of the day, like dye that has sunken into his skin overnight. And no matter where he turns, he finds himself distracted by the bright taint on his skin, fingertips, knuckles- and no one else can see it. Evidence, bold and branded, and Lance shows no outward sign of any of it, just a little lack of attentiveness.

“Lance, you’re all out of sorts today, are you sure you’re alright?” Of course Allura’s alarmed, Lance hasn’t spoken more than a couple of words to her in the last two hours.

 

“I’m fine, Allura,” Lance half-heartedly bats away Allura’s cool hand on his forehead, forcing out a laugh, “Jeez, get your hand out of my face.”

 

She huffs a sigh and settles her hands on her hips instead. “Come on, I know something is going on. It’s not like you to…” She motions at him vaguely.

 

“And what do you mean by that exactly?” Lance mirrors her stance, arching an eyebrow and shifting his weight to one side.

 

“It’s just… you’ve wiped the counter. Without me asking.”

 

“Yeah and?”

 

“ _Twice_.”

 

“Okay so… this is causing you distress.” Dropping the washcloth in his hands, because he hadn’t been about to wipe the counter down again, nope, not at all- “Should I just.. Not wipe then?”

 

“Oh you know it’s not that, you just. Seem a bit troubled. I want to help,” muttered Allura. The stray strands of silver hair falling from her bun give her a distinctly frazzled look that Lance doesn’t get from her often, and coupled with her slightly helpless tone of voice, he can’t help but feel sorry.  

 

He hadn’t meant to worry Allura, especially not by overwiping the countertop of all things. It’s just his mind had been somewhat preoccupied and Lance often got fidgety- and it was a slow Monday to boot. One thing led to another and Lance was making sure he could see his fucking reflection in that marvelous slab of granite, trying to ignore the fact that he’d had a very distracting, terribly vivid, _almost_ wet dream and he was aptly disturbed.

 

And distracted, which brings Lance back to the point at hand with Allura looking at him expectantly for an answer. He shakes his head, to clear it, to dispel the leftover strobe lights and fog. It almost seems easy to talk to someone like Allura, wanting to help, but Lance is feeling blindsided by the bumping of surreal skin on skin and imaginary chords.  “Allura, I appreciate it. I do, I promise-” what song had it been, Lance wants to know- “But it’ll pass. It’s nothing significant.” Lance _needs_ to know. “I’m just in a funk I guess?”

 

“A... funk.” Allura says it slowly, the word rolling like she’s unsure.

 

“Yeah, yeah, like you know, I’m all out of whack- you know what, who am I kidding?” Another laugh, not as strained this time, “Of course you don’t know, you’re practically perfect.” Cue the finger guns.

 

At that, Allura rolls her eyes, smiling with a bit of pink on her cheeks. “Just… hope you _un-funk_ soon, Lance. Cause you’re seriously throwing me off right now. Also, don’t touch the counter, it’s more than clean enough.” She turns away to the cash register, “But I know the restroom always needs a bit of attention.”

 

“Oh, _come on-!_ ”

 

“Nothing like a bit of toilet scrubbing to un-funk, huh?” She’s snickering without even turning around.  “Sorry, I just- I think the stalls are _calling_ for you, Lance-”

 

“ _Allura-!_ ”

 

*

 

Restroom duty comes with a mop and some corrosive cleaning products, as well as a sponge.

 

Lance scrubs and scrubs and scrubs but the invisible taint on his hands won’t wash away.

 

*

 

Why is the taint on his hands? He thinks that at break, suddenly, the thought popping into existence without being bidden- why does Lance even feel like his hands are covered in something he can’t scour away?

 

And the answer hits him from behind the head, he jolts a little at the memory- a part of his cloudy, loud dream, the sensation of satin-smooth skin under his own palms, the ghost of flesh under his nails-

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Actually maybe Lance yells it in his head, instead of saying it pensively. It’s too much of a sudden rush of memory, and Lance hasn’t. Touched or been touched in too long and _this_ is what it is, then, Lance just going stir-crazy in his own skin.  

 

He digs his fingers into his thigh slightly, and the images subside.  A little.  Lance isn’t a stranger to sudden onslaughts of recollection from dreams.

 

This is just a little out of his comfort zone.

 

 _But you were comfortable_ , the little, smug voice in his head whispers, _under those hands you were_ **_more_ ** _than comfortable_.

 

Lance tenses in his seat at another series of mental images- no thank you, he doesn’t want to deal with this right now, honestly there are tons of other ways to come to terms with your lack of sexual fulfillment than a coffee shop full of people- and Lance isn’t even afraid of popping a boner, he’s just extremely out of his depth right now.

 

Eyes flicking up, Lance scans the room and he knows that Keith isn’t here today. He hasn’t dropped by, and that’s not a crime- they didn’t have plans and God knows Keith has no obligation to be here either.

 

And also Lance isn’t sure that mind readers don’t exist (yeah it’s a stupid fear but), and with the small deluge of less than publically appropriate scenes in the forefront of his brain, he can never be sure how much of himself is exposed.

 

But no one in the room seems to be focused on or paying Lance any mind, so he relaxes the slightest.

 

The danger of having his private thoughts read by a telepath? Probably evaded for the time being.

 

*

 

Six o clock comes and goes and then Lance is booking it to get to Coran’s class on time at 6:15. Their focus is currently photo manipulation, something Lance enjoys, the enhancement of what's already there- especially the concept of selective coloring where only one part or aspect of the photo is in color and the rest is in black and white.  It makes him think of something he'd paint, maybe acrylic on canvas.

 

Monochromatic eyes but technicolor lips.

 

Or maybe even the other way around.

 

Lance tries not to let his mind latch onto lips but then he's frowning again as he dismisses high-definition, surround sound scenes and focuses instead on Coran’s demonstration.

 

But then Lance shudders at the feel of the AC merely glancing off his neck, charging him with the sensation of phantom touch.

 

Well, in any case, Lance might be fighting a losing battle but it's the thought that counts.

 

*

 

Finally, it's late in the evening when Lance can't ignore it anymore.

 

Crawling into bed after class not even bothering to change his clothes… it's been… well. A day.

 

A long, exhausting, conflicting, you-name-it day.

 

Lance momentarily considers messaging Hunk out of the deep, deep blue (called being a bad, isolated best friend with some degree of social anxiety) to ask “Hey, Hunk, have you ever had a day when your sexual frustration just wouldn't leave you the fuck alone?”

 

And maybe once, Lance would have sent that with no hesitation, but it's been a good, long while since Hunk’s had to deal with spontaneous sex questions so he thinks maybe it's better not to.  

 

He lies there in bed, and of course he knows he _can’t ignore it anymore._ Not that he’d been particularly good about ignoring it in the first place.

 

Lance knows who he dreamed about. He’s not _stupid_.

 

(He is, his brain insists, for getting himself into this.)

 

(Or did he really get himself into anything?)

 

(No, he didn’t. This isn’t anything.)

 

 _That’s right_ , Lance exhales into his defeated pillow, _it’s fine_.

And suddenly, it all kind of is. Because shit, Lance is tired, and it doesn’t seem important anymore.

 

Okay, so fine, Lance saw familiar faces in a not-exactly-PG dream. Familiar in the way that people you’ve really only recently met but feel like you’ve known them for a longer time are familiar. Familiar like only Shiro and Keith could be, both special in their own right and hard to forget.

 

 _Well, did you know that the human brain is incapable of creating new faces?_ Lance feels the fact that he remembers offhandedly bubble up to the surface. _That means that every single person in your dreams has the face of someone you know_ .  And for once, the random factoid eases Lance’s breath even more- because it’s normal. He doesn’t have to feel wrong about this- after all, maybe he’s a bit touch-starved, and just _happened_ to remember which faces his brain supplied.

 

If he hadn’t remembered, none of this would feel wrong at all. Except for, well, the fact that Lance hadn’t had real sex in a really long fucking time.

 

Had it really been that- yes. Yes, it had been forever basically. The last year or so had been hectic- Lance hadn’t wanted to spend any more than 4 years at NYCC, not after his unplanned gap year- no. This last year was exactly what it was- the last year.

 

Lance had meant it.

 

But also meaning it meant little time for much else, especially with the rent Lance paid by himself, the laptop he’d managed to scrounge up, art supplies, etcetera, etcetera. Meaning it meant little time to get out with people let alone have a relationship, plus the fact that Lance had somewhat grown out of casual sex, somewhat because it wasn't exactly a thing to be grown out of.

 

He sighed. Scrubbed his face into his pillow. So this was what he had come to. Pondering his nonexistent sex life with the air of an aging professor discussing a dry piece of expository text.

 

Sometime between that and the late hour of 10 PM, Lance drifted off into sleep.  He left all unread messages on his phone unread.  When he woke up he would only vaguely recall, one, being too tired to really take care of his sexual frustration, and two, telling himself he couldn’t-

  
There was, after all, a line between unconsciously dreaming about people, and thoughts of them inevitably emerging in the midst of taking care of “business”, and it was a line that Lance was _not_ willing to cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> owo what's this (haha just kidding)  
> tell me what you think! Anything confusing? What's going to happen next? 
> 
> Thanks to user CTHughes for an AWESOME, COOL AS HECK EDIT!! Made me gasp aloud:  
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vRD55DMVC_lC_mfymCbROZygzoKfyi6O3Z4oXutNK-U/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> Note: If any of you ever want to draw/make anything for this fic, you can go ahead!! (Only condition is I would. Love. to see it. Personally I haven't gotten around to drawing for this fic yet but I'll post links once I do!)

**Author's Note:**

> @celestialchels_ on twitter  
> I need more shklance friends, I'm not kidding you


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